


i'll be keeping my mind cold, until.

by klaxic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, mild AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:55:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22880653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klaxic/pseuds/klaxic
Summary: Martin attempts to bond.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 100
Kudos: 172





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Anna Ternheim's _Today is a Good Day._

It’s much easier to understand Peter Lukas if you didn't actually listen to him at all, Martin finally realizes, glancing at his boss jawing off in the doorway about some boat-related thing or another.

Well, maybe. He thinks he's heard the word 'rigging' in there somewhere and that's the point at which his eyes glaze back over from the dutiful fear and anxiety he's generally accustomed to in Peter's company, to the banality of paperwork. Spreadsheets, names he knew, names and the slots beside them empty, numbers that are beginning to make sense despite his lack of any business-related training.

He keeps typing. Peter has to know he’s not actually listening, but he seems content to monologue away in tune to keystrokes and clicks and frankly that’s alright with Martin. Peter has been away for two weeks now, returned yesterday, and the more time he’s spent in Elias' office shuttered away with Martin the better – it’s a hard job, keeping watch over a monster who could disappear at a moment's thought, and the times when Peter was out of sight were rather more frightening than when he popped into existence to bother him.

Randall, J. Another blank space. Only three so far, four counting a statement giver before Peter had even started working here. Not an awful record – not a great one, really, not for the lost, but in terms of the Institute's rather grim body count... well, Martin likes to consider himself an optimist.

Minutes pass. Martin makes the appropriate hums and nods (sails and canvas, and how to fix them, or something, except he's missed the context of time and vaguely wonders if this is some small personal sailboat Peter has, or perhaps a high seas adventure in the previous century; but by now it’s too late to ask, and far too rude). Another glance – Peter is sitting now, chair over by the closed door and facing a little ways away from the desk. Legs crossed, back straight (the man has very good posture, Martin has to admit, and it'd been one of the first things he'd noticed about him, the way Peter held himself so forthright, so unlike his own hunched form). Staring straight ahead into nothingness, and his fingers toy with the end of his suit jacket as he speaks.

Restless, then. Martin saves his work, then scoots back from the desk. The scrape of the chair seems to interrupt Peter's words, and he tilts his head in Martin's direction, not exactly looking at him.

“Getting some tea,” Martin offers to Peter's blank look. “I've also finished the payroll reports, if you wanted to look over -”

“No, no, I trust you on those. Dreary things.”

“Oh, the numbers too small for you? Not enough commas?”

A brief flicker of eye contact – Peter's smile grows, and then he looks away again. “It's just too sad, you see.”

Martin snorts. “Right, then. I'll be back.” Peter looks back down, fiddles with a stray thread. The corner of his mouth is still quirked up.

Martin returns with two mugs, steaming.

(Peter's not there, of course, but by the end of the hour the cup has disappeared, and at the end of the day Martin finds it washed and returned, sitting on his desk).

-

A week later finds Peter talking at Martin again (usually _at_ , never much _to_ , these rambles of his). This time, it's about a shipwreck, the _Medusa_ and it's horrid crew, crush of men between timbers, starvation on the open sea.

It's... a lot, at 8:30 in the morning, and Martin blinks blearily up at Peter, all broad and straight-backed, and his voice, though not necessarily loud, pierces the quietness of the office that Martin's come to enjoy.

“Yes. A crudely constructed raft, and no way to even guide it! One hundred and fifty men and it sank to their waists, and only wine and biscuits enough for one meal, and only one compass, too.”

(Oh, breakfast. He's missed it, never that hungry so early anyways, and begins to type in some delivery service).

He's not looking at him, again. Peter never really does, when he gets like this – like there's always something more interesting beyond Martin's shoulder, but it's a quirk he's become accustomed to. And prefers, perhaps, because if he has to interrupt he feels mildly less guilty about it.

“Bagel?”

“What?”

“None left in the break room, and it's raining outside.” Martins scrolls through the options, cheek resting on his hand. “Might go for a smoothie, too.” There's a pause after he speaks, and Martin looks up again to find Peter staring right at him.

“All those starving men, and you want breakfast, yeah?”

Martin grimaces, but there's humour in Peter's words, and mirth around his eyes. He snorts. “Well, you know... it was just such an inspiring tale.”

“I'm delighted.” Peter crosses over to Martin's side, behind the desk (always _the_ desk, technically Elias', technically Peter's, but while Martin's the only one who sits at it anymore, well... it just seems wrong, to make that claim). “...I don't know what half of these mean, to be honest.” His hands are clasped behind his back, and he leans forward, inspecting the vague implications of health food and vitamins.

“The Bohemian's pretty good?” Martin flushes, embarrassed for no good reason at his own offer, at the concept of getting his murderous, monster boss something so stupid as a _smoothie_ , but then he speaks before thinking better of it. “Do you even need to eat?”

Peter doesn't look down, blank interest in the menu. “I like to eat. Just get me whatever you're getting. Use the institute card.”

“Alright.” Shrugging, he doesn't look as Peter steps back, and there's a familiar chill – he's gone, then, and Martin sighs. “You can... finish telling me about the _Medusa_ later,” he says quietly, just in case.

-

Breakfast arrives promptly, and of course Peter is nowhere to be found – Martin doesn’t dawdle too much, simply leaves Peter’s serving on the corner of the desk, then heads out to eat. He takes all the right hallways, doesn’t see a soul, and as is becoming more common doesn’t particularly want to. The day, he thinks, is made for solitude anyways: gray, muted sounds of rain, cars whooshing by pleasantly.

He’ll get a lot done today, he knows, and is pleased by this; he’s always liked completing small, menial tasks, and the repetitiveness keeps other, darker thoughts at bay.

(The situation he’s in, that they’re all in, in general; his mother; past, future, a heady dose of the need to stay in the present, always; and Jon, of course, but Martin wills thoughts of him away faster than the rest. It did no good to pine, he tells himself, from such distance and purpose).

Martin settles down on a windowsill near the unused back entrance and unwraps the bagel – salmon and cream cheese, that delicate pink-orange making his mouth water. A little rich, maybe, for this hour, but why not indulge? Start the day out right? Peter would agree with him.

Peter pops up a lot in his thoughts, actually. He doesn’t chase these ones away so frequently, leaves them to settle ( _fester_ might be the better word) and ponder over, because they seem... safe, he supposes. For all this talk of rituals and Extinctions and monsters, Peter is his boss, Martin his beleaguered assistant, and in that duality things get done – sadly a far enough cry from how things were... before. Safe, too, in the way that he is allowed to think about Peter, and not so much anyone else.

Small bites, enjoyable. Martin fiddles with an app as he chews, makes reminders for himself, work notes and a grocery list. Did Peter need to do such things? Remember to pick up eggs on the way home, make a little check mark next to the salt? It seems too trivial for him, but then again Peter did like trivial things – maybe, Martin thinks, it’s less to do with monsterhood and more to do with... with _class differences_ ; maybe some poor soul was doomed to be the Moorland House personal shopper, Peter and his ilk never bothering to grumble angrily at an empty fridge, mentally calculating taxes with worry in the check-out line.

He certainly eats well enough, whether by actual food or... other things – they’re about the same height, though Peter’s shoulders have width on him, and are settled far more squarely and confidently besides – and they both have thicker builds; Martin attributes his own to lack of exercise and Peter’s more to age, and most likely muscle (he’s not quite sure how active a sea captain _is_ , really, but he likes to think there’s more thrill to it then standing sternly and pointing at numbers. All these talks Peter has put him through, and he hasn’t learned a thing). Still, there’s weight there, which Martin can almost appreciate – Elias had been lean and judgmental, while the space that Peter takes up lends an air of joviality to him, however false the truth of it.

(Does feeding your patron count as sustenance? He’s noticed Daisy’s been looking awfully thin these days, but, no, no, he tells himself, best not to think about her).

Best not to think about anyone, really.

He pops the rest of the bagel into his mouth, finishes his game, and heads back to work. Peter’s food is gone and in it’s place a small yellow post-it note with ‘ _thx_ ’ scrawled on it – this is new, Martin muses, and he tucks it into the bottom drawer.

-

It begins almost like an experiment, of sorts. Maybe not quite an interest, but more of something to do to pass the time. Martin thinks he’s pretty safe no matter what he does – Peter has laid his importance upon him a few times, and so long as he keeps his head down amidst the others, well, it’s not like there’s any reason for Peter to mess with him.

And so. He’s not exactly sure how much one can bond with an avatar of the Lonely, especially with a burgeoning one such as himself, but it’s certainly a way to... to connect, maybe, beyond long hours spent staring at a screen or hunched over boxes filtering out any Extinction-related statements, few and far between among the other depressing horrors.

Buying a copy, then, of _Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea: An Anthology_ , is actually one of the highlights of Martin’s week.

To be fair, the gift itself is unplanned – he’d been wandering in a mall he used to like, before the lights became too bright, everywhere, always too crowded, but he’d suffered to see if there were any new tarantulas for sale at the pet store (there were, but he’d think on it, always think on it, and never commit).

Still. The store looks like it’s on it’s way out soon anyways, but Martin’s pity dissipates when the clerk raises an eyebrow at the cover, smirking.

“Bit of a voyeur for disaster, eh?”

“Sure,” Martin sighs as he tucks it into his bag. “Something like that.”

At home, he flips through it before wrapping the book in the plainest blue paper he can find stashed in his house (there is a touch of self-consciousness in him – of wanting to be proper, that this is a gift, after all, but not wanting to seem too particular over it). There’s an entire section dedicated to being stove by whales, which is a term he’s never heard of, and thus, he figures, as he tapes up the last corner, he’s probably made the right choice.

As always, with most things he needs to give to Peter, he leaves it on their technically-shared desk, and finds himself adjusting the thing endlessly in an effort to seem careless but not too careless – he forces himself to stop after the tenth nudge, and instead scrawls out a quick note:

_Peter,_

_Saw this at the bookstore the other day – thought it might interest you._

_\- Martin_

He hesitates before signing his name (after all, who else would leave a gift behind?) but does so anyways, and it’s as soon as he tucks the piece of paper in behind the book that Peter’s fog starts creeping in from nowhere.

“Hello, Martin!”

“Ah - !”

Peter pays no mind to Martin’s surprise and instead strides over, tilting his head slightly to look at the package. He lays one hand on the paper, and his eyes narrow in what Martin thinks is confusion.

“And what have we here?”

“I-it’s a, uh, a gift? I was just going to, like, leave it here, but, well.” Peter looks back at him, frowning at first, but then he blinks and there’s an empty smile on his face. Martin feels his cheeks go red and just hands him the note, feeling somewhat defeated (he was hoping, actually, that he’d be able to just leave the gift here and return to the office with it gone, as things usually go).

He shrugs as Peter reads, clasping his hands together.

“Well, you know, you always tell me all these stories about boats -”

“Ships, Martin.”

“- _Ships_ , so I thought you might like... more. Of them.”

Peter holds his eyes for a beat longer than is comfortable, until Martin averts his own, and then he’s ripping along the paper seam delicately. Martin wonders if Peter ever really gets gifts. Probably not.

As the book is revealed Peter doesn’t speak, but instead hums in surprise (something that makes Martin strangely happy, that Peter can be _surprised_ ), and lifts his eyebrows.

“I mean I figure The Tundra is probably really quite boring, er, not _boring_ , but, uh, safe, er, safe, for _you_ , so these stories seemed.” He’s babbling, he can’t stop, he has to stop, Peter is just looking at him with that typical bland smile. “Fun,” he finishes, lamely.

Peter seems to consider this – his eyes slide off of Martin’s and he taps the book lightly against his chest, staring at the blank wall behind the desk.

“You’re certainly right about that,” he smiles, just a touch. “Thank you, Martin.”

Martin can’t help it, looks down at his shoes and shrugs, the beginnings of a stammered ‘you’re welcome’ forming on his heavy tongue, but already there is the slow creep of fog swirling around his feet, and he knows before he looks up that Peter is no longer in the room.

-

Martin sees the book three times in the next two weeks, left behind first on the desk, then a chair, then on top of some paperwork, and each time the thing looks a little more worn, thumbed through and pages dog-eared closer and closer to the end. He doesn’t mention it to Peter, never will, but instead holds onto the little bit of warmth that crawls through his stomach and rests easy and pleasant in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a very small document on Martin’s laptop; he opens it infrequently, but even when he does it’s mostly to look at and wonder, rather than to type and add. It is a short list:

\- likes to eat  
\- bagels = good (with salmon?)  
\- books about boats (non-fiction!)  
\- no fiction  
\- no reminiscing  
\- “Let’s stay in the present, Martin.”  
\- no poetry  
\- mobile games are okay, actually

It’s... not a lot, admittedly, this list of things that Peter likes, dislikes. But it’s something, a blurry sketch of his boss that Martin can squint at and figure out, just a little at a time. Forming together the shape of the only person he sees with regularity, now, in his own isolated world.

He'd typed out 'me' at one point, but then in a fit of self-consciousness and fear had deleted it immediately – but still, he thinks that he may not be wrong in that, exactly. Peter always seemed so comfortable with him (well, as comfortable as he could be, in someone else's presence), prattling on about nothing in particular, wandering around the office and looking at whatever was left on the spartan bookshelves, rifling halfheartedly through sheathes of papers Martin hadn't yet gone through.

If it were anyone else Martin might consider these things as reasons to stay – might still consider it, even for Peter, but he's pretty sure Peter doesn't even realize it himself.

So.

When Peter stays a little longer than usual, Martin doesn't fully commit his attention to him. Hums along with whatever is said, maybe, but finishes up his Excel files in contemplative professionalism. The clock in the office no longer makes any sound but he wonders if the clack of the keyboard is soothing to Peter, who's speech has become murmured and soft as he busies himself around the room.

These last few times, Martin has noticed Peter fiddling with the sleeve of his suit jacket (for however much money the Lukas may have had, he didn't seem to care much about the smaller details of his appearance). It's a thread, pulled taught by Peter's fingers, long and stretched and wound tight, revealing a rip along the inner seam of deep blue silk.

Peter, distracted by whatever has caught his attention on the shelf (books Martin had purchased for research, textbook-thick and despondent about the future, and a few about oceans and weather in particular, and if he had left them there for Peter to find after he'd finished with them, who was to truly say?) doesn't notice Martin pulling open the bottom drawer, full of junk he's collected, little notes and scraps of his life in this fog. He places a small sewing kit on the desk.

“Peter.”

Peter tilts his head in acknowledgement but doesn't look at him, tugging the thread and peering intently at _Our Oceans in Plastic_.

“Peter,” he sighs, trying again. “Peter, come over here. I can fix that, you know.”

“Hm?”

“Your jacket. It'll fall apart if you keep pulling at it like that.”

Peter blinks, and stills, and Martin sees his eyes dart to the door.

Martin doesn't say anything more, figures he's put the offer on the table clearly enough, and so just pushes up his glasses and begins to type again. Nonsense, now, but he figures that ignoring Peter for the moment might work. After a minute or two, it does – the jacket is laid carefully on the desk, Peter pulling out the second chair, sitting stiffer than usual.

Martin's never seen him without a suit jacket or coat on – rumpled as it may sometimes be, the blacks and grays are intimidating on someone as large as Peter, and to suddenly see him in a simple white dress shirt is... strange.

But he doesn't look for too long, just grabs the jacket delicately (it's heavy, rich; the lining watery smooth, the fabric faint with warmth) and places it on his lap, flipping the end of the sleeve inside out. He breathes in confidence and breathes out nerves, and the thread he reaches for, a perfect shade of ocean, comes to him first, and calms the threat of shaking hands.

The rip itself isn't much of a task, but Martin takes his time, placing the needle with precision and pulling the thread slowly, smoothly. From the corners of his vision he can see the heady muted gray and white of fog, rising and curling, and the usual shiver runs through him. He chances a glance up – Peter is still there, looking at his jacket, Martin's hands.

“I never learned how to sew.”

“Yeah? I kind of... figured that, to be honest.” Another stitch, sliding in, pulling out. “You know, for all your talk of isolation, you're really not all that self-reliant,” Martin says, laughing.

Peter lets out an amused breath, and his shoulders settle a little looser.

“I had to teach myself,” Martin continues. “Mum always waved me away from helping. I've always found it calming.”

“I would've just thrown it away.”

“Peter, please.” He levels him with a look over his glasses, and a smirk. “It's not the Extinction that's killing the planet. It's you and your,” he waves the needle, “tiny, easily fixable rips.”

Peter actually barks out a laugh at that, and Martin looks back down at his work, pleased. Another stitch, a final knot, and the snip of scissors as he cuts down the last bit of thread.

“There! All done.” He places the jacket back on the desk, and Peter scoots closer, inspects the sleeve carefully.

“Well! I'm impressed.”

“It's nothing, really. Easiest thing to fix.”

“Maybe so, but it's not like I could do it, right?” Peter stands and shrugs on the jacket, flipping the sleeve back over.

“Mm,” Martin hums, wanting to agree but not wanting to commit. Peter isn’t looking at him – he still seems more interested in Martin’s handiwork, which is better, actually, and when the static buzz rings out and he knows Peter has gone, he thinks it’s better than a thank you anyways.

-

Four days later Martin stumbles into the office, struggling, soaked umbrella in tow, to find clothing on the desk – a sweater and something similar, neatly folded, but he doesn’t touch them until he leans the frightful tines against the wall and pulls off his drenched jacket.

He hasn’t seen Peter in those days since, and as he approaches, flipping his flattened hair back from his face, he keeps a wary eye out.

There are two of them stacked on top of one another on the corner: the sweater, first, is thick, cable-knit, in creamy alabaster. Martin runs his hands over the patterns, lightly, as the rain still clinging to him threatens to soak the material; and what he feels is expense, craftsmanship. The second, beneath, is a dress shirt, heavier and softer than the ones he typically finds on clearance, and is a pale olive in colour – holding it, he finds that it contrasts well with his skin tone; as he flips the label at the neck and raises his eyebrows, he finds it does not contrast so well with his wallet.

There’s a crinkle of paper and Martin tugs out a note.

_Martin_  
_Bought these awhile ago. Never fit me. 2nd shirt has rip along side._  
_Fix up and keep, or toss._  
_Needed on the Tundra, be back in a week._  
_\- thx_

Martin stands there, silent, gobsmacked, and there’s a soft trail of rain dripping down from his glasses onto his hand. He reads the note again, and then again a third time, then sets it down delicately on the desk. Carefully, he unfolds the clothing, presses it against himself – he can see why they wouldn’t fit Peter, the length fine but Martin’s shoulders are smaller, and really, they might just...

God. What is he doing? Taking handouts from his boss, now? But, he justifies, smoothing out the fabric against his front, maybe Peter doesn’t see it the same way. Maybe he truly didn’t care, or the author of _Our Oceans in Plastic_ , that truly despondent scientist, really knew how to write his way into the cold, shriveled heart of a Lukas.

Or perhaps, another part of him insists, this is the only way Peter knows _how_ to give gifts. And that maybe he’d want to actually _give_ Martin a gift, for once.

Martin stands very still, holding these rich things, Peter’s things. He hopes they fit. As he heads to the bathroom, tugging off his sweater, he can’t help but smile.

-

They fit.

They smell faintly of seawater, Martin finds, when he tries them on again at home (he’d changed fast, very fast back at the office, then immediately put them away, and proceeded to get no real work done). Salt and not much else, but still there’s the scent of something human, and someone once warm, and items folded and placed in a careful, gentle manner.

He tries not to think too hard about the concept of smelling Peter Lukas’ old clothing, but as he’s currently wearing both the dress shirt and the sweater (not a good look, the shirt too heavy to fit nicely underneath) he is finding that very hard indeed. But still. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt so comfortable in clothing like this, and, while it’s a little pathetic to admit, it kind of feels like he’s being hugged. In this pleasant fog, he thinks to himself, how nice it is, to wear someone else's sweater. He's never been able to do that before, to fit. 

(Martin is... very alone).

He pads around his apartment like that, barefooted in his pyjama pants as he clicks past reruns, waiting for his pasta to heat up. It’s still raining outside, and eventually he turns the telly off. He listens while he eats, and he’s still listening when he retires to bed, still wearing Peter’s clothes.


	3. Chapter 3

Martin catches a spider, one day in early April.

Peter’s peering at it from a distance, hands in his pockets and seemingly unwilling to move and do anything _about_ the thing, except mutter an unkind “hmm” in it’s direction, and so it’s up to Martin to deal with it directly. It’s hefty and fat, with little legs that twitch in anticipation of the adverbs scurry or scramble, maybe – Martin finds the creature to be cute in it’s own many-legged way.

He understands, of course, why Peter is hesitant, maybe why _he_ should be hesitant, that Cane and the Web are still out there sowing their threads, but all in all, it seems so silly, to be afraid.

“Look, I’ll get rid of it, alright? You just...” He waves a hand in Peter’s general direction. “You just stand there and open the door for me.”

“Wouldn’t it be much easier to kill it? Look, I’m done with this book here - ”

“No!” Martin says, aghast.

“Hrm.” But he says no more, and allows Martin to creep closer, cupping his palm over the spider and gently sliding a folded sheet of paper underneath, until it lays there, trapped. Martin can feel it’s limbs against his palm.

“Oh! That’s kind of ticklish, actually. Peter, the door?”

Peter somehow manages to look even paler, which is a feat unto itself; but still he dutifully turns the knob, holding himself far away from Martin and his catch.

“I’d think _most_ people would use a cup.”

“Well I’m not most people, am I?”

“You truly aren’t,” Peter answers, and Martin glances over, surprised; Peter’s not quite looking at him, like usual, but his mouth is set in a manner he doesn’t see often. Serious, composed. Martin follows his gaze back to his hands. He wants to say thank you, but doesn’t; instead he just hums thoughtfully.

The door does not close behind him as he exits, and though the spider has begun to skitter in earnest he wills himself not to tremble, and keeps his back straight.

-

When he returns Peter is still there, which surprises him; he’s leaning on the edge of the desk, fiddling with a pen, clicking the end of it.

“Didn’t gobble you up, then?”

“Nope.”

“No extra limbs? Funny vision?”

“M’afraid not,” Martin laughs while he enters, shooing Peter away.

“Well a boss is supposed to worry about that sort of thing, as you’ve told me.” He grins, pocketing the pen as he straightens, edging further from him. A circular dance of sorts, to keep the same distance, and he moves from the desk as Martin sits.

“And you’re doing a _wonderful_ job of it, Peter, thank you.”

“Just doing my duty.”

“Yes.”

“Not particularly fond of spiders, you see.”

“I know, Peter.”

“Hmm. Anyways!” He taps the edge of the desk, before resting a hand on it, fingers spread, and Peter makes even the most casual posture seem so false; Martin wonders if this – simple, unconscious action – is something he’s had to practice. He also notices how _large_ Peter’s hands are, and rough (he wonders if this is from working on the _Tundra_. He wonders if he uses moisturizer. He wonders a lot of things, and tries to focus in instead on Peter’s looming form). “If you were to order in tonight I would not be averse.”

Martin actually _wasn’t_ planning on ordering in tonight, because he’s brought leftovers from home, but it’s a sad little Tupperware of salad and he has to admit that the misuse of Institute funds sounds much more fun. He shrugs in acceptance, clicking open his inbox and another tab.

“Any preference?”

“Hmm! No.”

“You know how nerve-wracking that is, right? Choosing for someone else?”

“I do, yes.”

“ _Peter_...”

“Whatever you’re having works.”

“Ugh! Fine,” Martins exhales, throwing up his hands, but it’s a false irritation and a crooked smile works it’s way through. “Now _go_ , I have way too many emails to get through.”

There’s no answer, and when Martin glances up again the room, predictably, holds no more than errant wisps of fog, circling slowly where Peter had stood. The room chills him, and it’s not the first time Martin wishes he was wearing the sweater ( _t_ _he_ sweater: because it’s not Peter’s anymore, is it? But it’s not his, nor does he entirely want it to be, not yet; he finds comfort in that muddled ownership).

Instead, he shivers, but as he hunches over and begins his work he doesn’t mind so much. Today has been a good day.

-

He ends up ordering kebab, two platters that he carefully divides equally (just in case Peter doesn’t like one, but the other): beef sirloin with crushed walnuts and pomegranate juice laid over chopped parsley, and lamb shanks over stew, rice and salad on the side. For dessert, two delicate pieces of baklava. It all smells heavenly, and Martin breathes it in – he’s missed this. Warmth, sharing. Maybe that’s the point – maybe, an unpleasant part of him thinks, he’ll set out a plate and eat alone and come back to find the rest of it cold and unappetizing. His choice no good, Peter teaching him a lesson.

It’s a brief moment of hesitation, but he gamely continues and places gently the cover back over the food, watching the plastic lid steam. He takes his leave and his meal, back to his little lonely nook, and eats in peace. Overhead there’s a single strand of web, the beginnings of a home, maybe. Hopefully.

“Don’t worry,” Martin says, his voice quiet but still so loud in the empty building. “It’ll be our secret.”

-

Peter is replacing the lid back over the platter as Martin comes back into the office; he hasn’t eaten yet, Martin can tell, and though he won’t ask he’d really like to know where Peter _does_ eat – like him, does he find some quiet corner to hide in?

Such animals, they are.

“Smells divine,” Peter smiles around him.

“Tasted divine, too,” Martin answers, straightening up the mess of papers he’d been working on. “You’re staying late?”

Peter shrugs, places the carefully wrapped baklava on his portion, and Martin ponders a bit as he tugs on his coat, pats the right-hand pocket for the keys he always knows are there, feels settled when he hears the familiar jangle. Usually Peter’s not here when he leaves – actually, now that Martin thinks on it, he’s sure he never has been. This is sort of a quietly momentous occasion. Like it’d be wrong to just rush out.

Peter is still puttering about, running a hand along Martin’s books (he’s been adding more, in recent weeks), so after a moment’s pause Martin speaks up, near the door.

“I like buildings after hours, too. Like just being here is some sort of secret?” He zips up his coat, picks up his bag. “It’s very calm.”

Peter remains quiet, but that’s to be expected. Martin sees him stiffen, however, back going straighter and the turn of his head away from Martin, his hand pausing, then retracting, from the books. Did he push too far? Was that little tidbit, this offering of similarity, too much, too soon? But there’s nothing to be done about it now. Martin resigns himself to this tiny failure.

“Goodnight, Peter.”

He gets static in response.

-

Hours later, after Martin’s heavy eyes are close to sleep’s reprieve, he receives a text.

_No love for the building_

_But it is quiet here_

It’s from Peter – as he reads, wide-eyed now, the contact info flickers and scrambles and fast as he’s able to he screenshots the message; his phone freezes for a full minute, going black, and the message has disappeared entirely.

The screenshot remains.

He’s been holding his breath. This shouldn’t – this shouldn’t _mean_ so much to him. Not at all. But when’s the last time he’s received a text? So late at night, as personal as he’s ever gotten from Peter, and, (this is what makes his chest go warm), so unnecessary. It didn’t need to be sent, not at all.

Peter had just. Wanted to.

Martin lays awake for some time after that, in his pyjamas, and in the sweater. The wind rises outside and he is warm and coddled; and he thinks to himself, I have a crush on Peter Lukas.

This should inspire within him some sort of abject terror; a drop in his stomach, a rush of nerves; but instead he turns onto his side and buries his head in his pillow and imagines indulgences, like running his fingers over Peter’s hands, mapping age and what must be chilled skin, hands rough and hewn like stone. Peter has never once touched him; Martin brings the phone to his chest, opens up the screenshot (he hasn’t texted back, doesn’t plan on it; to bring attention would be to ruin it), and tucks his chin into the sweater. He breathes in, slowly, imagines those hands clapping him on the shoulder, ghosting along the neckline.

This is bad. This is really, really bad.

He turns off his phone, pointedly facing it down on his bedside table, and whips off the sweater – it lands with a soft thump somewhere near his jeans. He resolves not to think of this at all tonight, but also resigns himself to a severe lack of sleep.

-

He dreams, briefly, of sewing. There is a never-ending stretch of fabric before him, the thread coming from somewhere beyond his vision. He knows, in his dream-sense, that the needle fits badly in his clumsy hands, and if he stops to think he will never be able to thread it again; but beneath his clothing he feels a tiny, spindly leg, and another. And another. And though he shivers he stares blankly forward.

Another.

Another.

-

Martin wakes up with a severe case of bed head (can feel the awkward angles, that touch of pain thick hair brings) and when he drags himself to the kitchen, to lay his heavy head down beside his mug of tea, he opens up the message to read it over and over again.

“Fuck,” he whispers.


	4. Chapter 4

The weatherman has called for rain in the amounts of, perhaps, a small monsoon, or a biblical reckoning, but that doesn’t stop Peter from appearing in the office and asking, quite politely, for Martin to have his things packed and ready to leave. Tomorrow.

“Tomorrow?” Martin repeats, a touch astounded – Peter’s actually been gone, _again_ , for the past week and a half (apparently a single text was far too much for the man) and while Martin’s been dealing with his crush in a fantastically empty way, what with the object of his new affection disappeared who knows where , it’s been a rather trying few days. The back entrance door is still broken after the latest attack , and there’s a bloodstain on the wall that doesn’t want to come off no matter _how_ much he goes at it after work with increasingly more terrifying veins of cleaning products, and, sometimes, he hears the echo of whistling. Of Melanie.

Christ. Maybe he _does_ need a trip away.

“Yes. I’d apologize for the short notice, but. Well.” He shrugs. There will be, of course, no apology. “Things keep happening, as it were. I’ve some business to attend to.”

“And I... I need to be there, too?”

“Hmm,” Peter scratches his beard thoughtfully, and Martin’s not sure what would be worse – suddenly being kicked off this field trip, or that he could be of some value to whatever ‘business’ Peter had found himself involved in. “I believe you do, yes. You can drive, correct?”

“Wh – yeah? Peter, am I just your chauffeur?”

“You’re much more than that, Martin! Never fear. But I will need you to drive us there, yes. Only half a day out, not long at all.”

Martin, as he’s come to recognize his idiot feelings, isn’t as put out as he should be. Hours alone in a car with Peter Lukas could go, hopefully, in one of two ways: either he’ll be giddy the entire time, nerve-wrecked and stumbling, and Peter will find it charming (Martin is either realistic or stupidly optimistic about this prospect); or he’ll learn to hate the man as he properly should.

He sighs, pinching between his eyes, and Peter looks beyond him with that calm, expecting smile.

“So, you’ll go?”

Oh. He’s actually... asking. Or pretending to, at least. If Martin keep his standards low, that could almost be considered cute. Martin fixes his glasses and huffs out a laugh.

“Well, of _course_ I’m going, Peter. Anything I need to bring? Or is this just a day trip?”

“Hmm. An overnight trip. Pack for that. Use the Institute card to rent a car,” Peter answers, fading; Martin gives him the privacy of leaving and looks away, already searching up rental sites.

“And Martin?” A voice from everywhere, nowhere.

“Y – yeah?”

“It’ll be cold – bring a sweater.”

-

Martin does bring a sweater. _The_ sweater, because while every piece of grass that has managed to grow is currently being trampled by rain outside, Martin still feels spring in the air, and there’s an optimism that can’t be squashed. He doesn’t even want to _do_ anything, honestly; doesn’t want anything to actually happen – it’s just that it’s been so long since he’s had such a weirdly fun feeling inside of him that it seems a shame to not indulge. Just a little.

Martin packs his nicest jeans. And a suit jacket he owns, one that he’s never really had much chance to go out and wear, that fits nicely over this navy blue dress shirt, and maybe... Oh. Dress shirt under the sweater, jacket on top. He checks himself out in the mirror – he looks _good_. He’ll have to keep this in mind. Maybe if they get dinner...

God. He pulls the jacket off, only slightly ashamed.

The jitters don’t leave him, and neither the quirk of his lips, even as he finishes packing (yes, okay, everything in there certainly nicer than what he wears at work, even the underwear, and the pyjamas soft and freshly laundered), eats a nice dinner, that he’s taken time to cook, to feel good about for the next day.

It’s... this’ll be nice, he tells himself, as he turns off his laptop for the night. A little trip. Peter has money, maybe they’ll get themselves a nice hotel stay, and Martin can go downstairs to the bar, have something kind of expensive and fruity and alcoholic to drink. And maybe Peter will come down with him, or just show up in some spooky corner, and they can sit there and not talk, or Peter _can_ talk and Martin can shift closer and press a leg against Peter’s...

His head falls against the pillow, and he brings it over his face, pressing into it and shouts, frustrated. And maybe, just maybe, if he’s really dreaming, Martin will be such an awful driver tomorrow that they’ll just fall off a cliff somewhere and he can be done with it, this whole hilariously horrible life he’s found himself in.

Wouldn’t that be nice.

Somehow, the universe blesses him with a dreamless sleep.

-

They leave late morning, which couldn’t come soon enough, as Martin’s done absolutely nothing since he’d gotten to work that could even be considered productive.

The car has already arrived, dropped off by some employee hours before, and it’s a strange, strange feeling to place his suitcase alongside Peter’s in the trunk.

“Hello, Martin!” Peter’s cheery voice appears behind him, and Martin spins and yelps, almost hitting his head on the opened trunk. He gives Peter a grimaced look, heart still beating wildly. “I’m sorry – couldn’t resist.”

“I _know_ ,” he sighs, closing the back and choosing for once not to reprimand Peter. “You’ve got everything, then?”

“I believe so. Guess we’ll see when we get there, right?”

“Or you could tell me what we’re _actually_ doing and we could make sure.” But Peter just laughs at him, and settles himself into the passenger seat; Martin takes one last look at the Institute, wishes beyond all hope for something akin to luck, and opens the door.

-

The first half hour they are serenaded by fat, heavy raindrops, loud and thick enough that seeing into traffic is actually difficult – thankfully, Peter is a rather good passenger; quiet, unobtrusive, doesn’t actually say a word to Martin whatsoever, only looks over with a raised eyebrow once at Martin’s murmured swears at everyone else on the road.

Eventually they get out of London proper, Martin dutifully following the quiet tones of the GPS. Peter still hasn’t said anything, just continues looking out of the window, hands crossed over his lap. He still has his coat on, and only now does Martin realize it’s warm in the car, and humid.

“You’re not too hot, are you?”

“Hmm. No.”

“Cold?”

“The temperature is fine, Martin.”

“Well – alright, then.” He can’t help but feel a little put out.

-

Another hour passes. Steadier rain now, smaller, tighter, gravel versus concrete. Martin wishes it were silent – neither of them are talking, which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, usually, but the rain is irritating and relentless, and the view consists only of blue-gray roads and the blur of traffic lights. Peter seems content to stare out the window but Martin is not so easily amused.

“Radio?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Martin taps his fingers on the wheel and purses his lips. He makes a decision.

“Talk, then.”

Peter’s attention shifts from the window to Martin, and Martin glances over and sees that his gaze is blankly surprised – good, then. He can push a little farther.

“Wellllll,” he looks back to the road, gesturing. “I mean I’m driving _all_ this way, to God knows where, the least I can be is _entertained_ somewhat.”

“I’m not sure how I -”

“Well, you know! You have all your boat – I’m sorry, _ship_ – stories. Go, “ he flicks a hand. “Go on and tell me some awful tale that’ll make me never want to go on a boat, ever.”

“Not even the _Tundra_?” Peter’s voice is plaintive, amused.

“Not even the -” Martin laughs at that. “Peter, if I ever have to go on the _Tundra_ I’m going to assume something went _very_ wrong in our working relationship.”

“Or _very_ right.” Peter grins at him, tilting his head.

“Okay, yes, sure. I’ll be your, your apprentice, when all this is over. You go off and hide in your cabin and I’ll fill out all the paperwork.”

“Well _that’s_ an idea. You’re so very good at it, Martin.”

“Mhm.”

“You are truly indispensable, and it’s a shame you don’t believe it.”

Martin blinks at him then, brought out of the ease of their banter (how does Peter do it? Just... say these things, aloud?) but Peter is back to looking out the window.

“Well... well, thank you, Peter.”

“Mm.”

Clicker turning left, Martin eases over on the road, traffic gaining speed. He taps a few bars of some tune out on the wheel, thinking.

“...We wouldn’t be able to get takeout on the _Tundra_ , you know.”

Peter waves a hand lazily. Martin can see a soft smile out the corner of his eye. “I’m sure you could cook.”

“Oh, I can cook!” Martin nods passionately. “But I’ll need more than three feet of space to do so, thank you very much.”

“How small do you think the _Tundra_ is, Martin?”

“Okay... okay, to be fair, I have no idea what a kitchen looks like on a boat. Ship.”

“Well! I suppose I’ll have to show you someday.”

“Hm. I’d like that. But no eating _people_ , while I’m on board. Normal food only.”

Peter grins, looking down at his hands. “I think that could be arranged?”

Martin huffs out a breath, pleased.

A minute passes, then two. It’s comfortable, now, between them. And while he didn’t get a story he did get some – if can say so himself – mildly flirtatious banter, even if it was an invite to a murder-boat. He’ll take what he can get. Beside him, Peter’s closed his eyes, hands back to being folded in his lap. Martin doesn’t think he’s sleeping, exactly, Peter’s posture still tall and straight, but maybe it’s some sort of... meditation. Or just what he does when he’s tired. Martin figures he’ll probably never know, but that’s okay. He’s just happy that Peter feels at ease enough, trusts Martin enough, to be still. He lets the next two hours pass by quietly, peacefully.

-

The rain hasn’t let up, even now, four hours into their trip (which should have been shorter anyways, but Martin’s passed by three car accidents along the side of the road, and traffic's congested in strange places otherwise); but the GPS has Martin pulling into a small town, and, while not exactly colourful, it’s a welcome reprieve from the constant gray.

“We’re looking for a hotel,” Peter suddenly says, now looking forward with interest. “Nothing big.”

“Surprised a town like this even _has_ a hotel, to be honest,” Martin answers, peering into each street as the GPS strives to relocate, relocate, relocate.

“It’s got a nice beach, apparently? And the weather was supposed to be sunny this weekend. Ah,” Peter says, tapping the window. “There we go. Holland Street. Should be at the end here.”

He follows Peter’s direction, and the slosh of the car over flooded potholes unnerves him. Why are they even here? Martin doesn’t deny that little towns like this may hold some importance, especially in their... esoteric line of work, but now that they’re at their destination Martin realizes what a bad idea it was to not worry over it even more. To think, he’d been concerned over his clothing when he should be getting anxious over... over... well. Peter’s not going to sacrifice him. Probably. But he’d rather not deal with any other great avatars of evil, thank you very much.

Though, he thinks as he pulls in to the crowded parking lot, at least he’ll look nice, even at the end.

“Peter,” Martin asks casually, parking in a space he’s not even sure is a space (but one he’ll take, dammit, because the only other one he’d spotted was quickly stolen by a squabbling family climbing out of a minivan). “You made reservations, right?”

-

Peter, as it turns out, did not.

“I’m _so_ sorry, sirs, but I’m afraid we only have single rooms available. One, actually,” the lady at the front desk says, presumably refreshing her page as her colleague talks gamely to a man with many jars.

“And there’s – there’s no cots available? None?”

She shakes her head no, and shrugs. “Look, I mean, it’s Marmalade Fest, _and_ Crab Fest, _and_ there’s some romance novel literary... thing, happening, all this weekend.” She leans forward and purses her lips. “You really should have made a reservation.”

Out of everything, Martin actually finds her dismissal of the ‘romance novel literary thing’ the most offensive. He sighs. Peter is barely paying attention – he’s standing off to the side, suitcases stacked beside him, looking blankly into the distance. The lobby is filled with all manners of people, most of them loud, and friendly, and bonding over the rain and bad parking. Near him, a child screams with delight, and Martin can see the twitch of his hands, the pallor of his face.

“I – yes. Yes we should have, thank you.” He squares his shoulders bravely. “We’ll take the room.”

It’s overpriced, but Martin doesn’t feel bad in the slightest as Peter pays.

-

“I can’t believe you didn’t even make a reservation, Peter,” he says, grimacing as he trails in the room after him, huffing a bit after pulling his suitcase up three flights of stairs (the elevator had been far too packed to even consider bringing Peter inside; like it’d be cruel, somehow).

Peter doesn’t say anything; if he were a normal man, Martin might expect him to simply fall flat on the quilt-topped bed, sprawled out and given up on life, such is his now sombre mood. As it is, from behind, Martin can see the square set of his shoulder droop, slightly, the breath he’d been holding in let out.

Martin flicks on the light, a warm, pleasant glow at odds with their soaked forms. “Well, at least the room is. Nice.”

The room _is_ nice, actually – it’s just that Martin would be far more appreciative if his life didn’t revolve around things that go bump in the night. As it is, the floral wallpaper, the quilt (certainly made with love, draped over the end of the bed), the bounty of pillows, little tchotchkes lining the quaint writing desk in the corner... it all feels like he’s intruding, somehow. Peter and him don’t belong in this home away from home. And they certainly don’t deserve the little heart-shaped tin of chocolates set squarely in the middle of the bed.

Martin wonders if this is some sort of honeymoon suite. Martin puts that thought out of his head.

“Hmm. Maybe this place isn’t so bad,” he shrugs, nodding at the tin and tugging his suitcase off to the corner. As he leans down to untie his boots, Peter, still having said nothing, goes over to the window – it’s not much of a view, and the rain is still pouring, but Peter is staring intensely outside.

“Peter?”

Martin sidles up beside him, and only then does Peter tilt his head in something of a response. A minute passes; Martin clasps his hands behind his back and waits. Finally, Peter breathes out.

“Thank you for driving us, Martin. However, if you could make a call downstairs soon to hold the room for another night, I think that would be for the best.”

Martin nods. “Got your work cut out for you, then?”

No response.

“...Is it because of the rain?”

Peter nods, ever so slightly. “Most likely.” He looks down at Martin, then, and Martin thinks it’s something like fondness in Peter’s expression; something soft and reserved.

His eyes are very pale, gray – Martin has to blink away to stop from staring.

“Well, if you need me, I’m here.”

“I know.” And to Martin’s utter, utter shock, Peter lifts up his hand and places it gently on Martin’s shoulder, squeezing slightly. “Don’t go too far. I’ll be back later.”

Martin blinks, and then he’s gone – static clinging to the inside of his head and fog settling low by his feet, cool against his damp socks. He stays still for a moment; raises a hand to place it where Peter’s was, understands, immediately, how small his own is comparatively.

The flush on his cheeks rises and stays while he flops back on the bed, eating a chocolate (or two, or three); stays while he rolls over on his belly, kicking his legs like a schoolgirl; and stays while he unpacks his toiletries and calls down for the added night.

It’s stupid. The whole thing is stupid, because there’s danger here, maybe, probably, and all he’s concerned about is a hand on his shoulder, a kind look, and the promise of tonight, and another. His brain wars with these two concepts – of needing to be realistic, to be safe, and to hide inwardly and shield himself from all that might harm him, Peter included.

And yet. Is he not allowed to want? After he’d admitted these feelings to himself, it’s strikingly easy to see how it manifests in his life – the permeation of emotions that he’d thought had been dulled down and whittled to nothing. And Jon still exists, in the back of his mind, his feelings for him. But it’s an aching one, tucked away and hollow compared even to Peter’s place. It’s an ache that’s better off left behind, with all the sorrow and missing days gone by.

But Peter is... it’s different. Peter is _there_ , always, if not in the flesh then at the forefront of Martin’s day, his waking moments, the chance of a soft laugh, a story told.

Martin sighs, sagging into the plush bed. The rain still pours, but the sound is a consistent rush, drowning out his thoughts, and for now he is grateful. Peeling off his socks, he lays them flat on the floor and curls up on the bed; somewhere near by, he can hear murmuring, echoes of all these other people, and he can be comforted by that small normalcy.

It’s 3 o’ clock – Martin pulls the quilt over top himself and tugs a patterned pillow in close, and closes his eyes to nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also find me at twitter at [@emperiocism](https://twitter.com/emperiocism)!


	5. Chapter 5

Martin wakes up, sluggish and out of tune with the world – he’s slept too long, he can feel it, the pull of the bed and his tired eyes allowing him a pleasant, deep rest he hasn’t had much of recently. The orange-yellow numbers of the alarm clock on the opposite side of the bed read (he squints, patting around the bed for his glasses), seven pm. At this, he throws himself off the bed, vertigo taking claim, and he has to force himself to stand still, eyes closed and hands over his face, until everything stills.

The lights are still on, weak and but still too bright, and as things settle and his eyes adjust he looks to see if Peter has returned.

...Not yet, seems like, the air dry and both their suitcases upright and untouched. Thank god.

His stomach grumbles; he hasn’t even eaten lunch proper, just a granola bar on the road, and, glancing outside, it’s dark but the streets are well-lit; Peter’s warning rests in the back of his mind, heavy like his hand.

He wonders what Peter’s up to, tonight. If he’s safe; if he’ll come back at all; if he’ll sleep next to him. Martin tries not to think too much on this – both their frames are large, the bed only a double... he sighs, tugging on his jacket. Right. Time to get some food. Stay close by. Worry about everything else later.

-

There is, luckily, a little convenience store just down the block, and he makes quick work of snacks – chips, drinks, sandwiches, and some sort of prepackaged bland vegetable mix (so he doesn’t feel the guilt of his teeth, protesting wildly against this day). All in twos, of course – because Martin, he admits to himself, has decided that Peter must be fed, and it is his duty to do so. Which is stupid, really, as Peter’s a fully grown man and also he is pretty sure he can subsist pleasantly well on people anyways.

And this place is _full_ of people. Martin can only hope the sheer volume of them keeps anyone from feeling a bit too lonely.

He looks down at the bag and desperately prays that chips and dip will be just as filling.

The rain still continues its onslaught and there is a growing heaviness in the air and in his bones. He’s tired, still, from the drive and the nap, and right now curling up in the comfort of a strange room seems wonderful. He’s always liked hotels, guest bedrooms – there’s no control he can exert, barring lights, an air conditioner. All he has to do is lay there and sleep and silently judge the art on the walls (not even in a rude way but more of an ‘this wouldn’t be my first choice, but I appreciate the effort,’ sort of way). And maybe Peter will have returned by now; however awkward it might be he’d do well with the company.

And he has, honestly, begun to enjoy Peter’s company, at least what little scraps he’s gotten. There’s something calming and quiet now between them, and despite Peter’s insistence on talking about mundane things, or rattling on about ships, oceans, Martin finds it peaceful. In his more poetic moods he’s likened it to a city outside his window, or maybe just the rain – murmured, free of judgment.

Is it the influence of the Lonely to crave their time together, Martin wonders, shouldering open the hotel entrance and nodding politely to the receptionist. Or his own appreciation for this silence, in his hectic world?

Either way. Beyond their room door Martin can hear the soft mutter of talking, and after he pockets the key card he opens it gently, blinking into the low light of the place. Peter is there, watching television – he’s laying on the bed, propped up by pillows (one he’s stolen from Martin’s side, he notices, and wonders if he’ll get it back). Peter’s legs are crossed, arms folded over his belly, and he looks so _normal_ , so _casual_ resting there watching whatever is on that Martin’s heart aches.

Peter glances over at him, and Martin raises the bag in a greeting. “Dunno if you’ve eaten already, but I’ve got us some dinner. And snacks?”

At this, Peter raises up slightly, interested. “I have not! Thank you, Martin,” he chirps, and moves to get up, but Martin waves him off as he hangs up his jacket.

“We can just eat on the bed, I don’t care.” Collecting two plates, he heads over, sitting gingerly on the edge as he doles out everything; the cans sink into the blankets, clinking against one another. “What are we watching tonight?”

“Mm, the ginger-ale please. It’s a documentary about the railway system in the States? More interesting than it sounds,” he laughs, taking notice of Martin’s grimace.

“You are so old.”

“Railways are for _everyone_ , Martin. And I’m not old! I’m spry.”

“I’ve never seen you move faster than a walk in my life,” Martin huffs out as he unwraps his sandwich.

“Well maybe that’s because you do such a good job that I don’t need to!”

“ _Maybe_ it’s because you’d rather die than rush to answer the phone,” says Martin, rolling his eyes as he settles in next to Peter, balancing a plate in his lap.

“Hm,” Peter seems to ponder. “That is very true.”

It’s Martin who looks back to the television first – the narrator now talking about some corruption scandal, laid over sepia-toned maps and little dots marking a passage across a wide, wide country. He begins to eat, and Peter does the same beside him, which is funny in it’s own strangeness – Peter’s never eaten in front of him before. It’s the little things, Martin supposes, and he can feel the heat in his cheeks rise in response to their proximity. If he tipped over, even a few inches, he thinks, he’d be right up alongside him.

He would probably be very comfortable. Martin doesn’t look, not now, but Peter has wide shoulders, a thick frame. Lots of room to rest his head on. But avatars of the Lonely, he supposes, wouldn’t be much for cuddling.

They make quick work of their meal in silence, and Martin leaves to shower, Peter still entranced by the incredibly slow drama unfolding.

-

Night climbs on, quickly. Martin cleans up when he comes back out, wrappers in the garbage, what little can be recycled in the small bin by the desk. He’s warm, skin flushed and red, and he supposes there’s not much else to be done except turn off all the lights save the bedside one and wait until Peter returns from his own shower. The covers over top of him lay heavy and snug, and he wiggles to the outside, right along the edge – Peter will probably need more room.

He waits, then, for Peter to return, and attempts to answer emails. All of them get saved as drafts and left unsent – there’s a nervousness in his gut and he can’t help but glance up every minute, waiting for the door to open. He hopes it’s soon, not only for another chance to see Peter be human, but because the heaviness hasn’t gone away, the shower contributing to his concrete eyelids and sluggish mind.

It doesn’t take long; the shower clicks off, now only the rush of the rain outside dampening the clarity of the two of them alone, and the door opens soon enough after. Peter exits, and Martin can’t help but eye him up – it’s not that there’s anything particularly... particularly sexy, about him, right now (right _ever_ , he corrects himself, Peter is a _monster_ , why is his brain so insistent on ignoring that part? Or is he so far gone as to just not care anymore?), but his short, silvery-white hair is mostly plastered to his forehead, except a little tuft near the back that curls up; and his pyjamas, though loose, still clings to damp skin, and Martin breathes quietly, deeply, at the width of his chest, the thickness of his thighs.

Okay. Maybe a little sexy.

But mainly it’s just. Different. It’s nice. He likes this aspect of Peter, where he eats anything Martin places in front of him, and reads his books, and Peter talks about what must be his only hobbies, totally unconcerned by how little Martin cares, and isn’t that endearing? How Peter owns more than suits and sleeps in an old t-shirt and flannel pants and if that means Martins wants to smooth out Peter’s unruly hair then so be it.

He flicks his eyes back to his phone, brain shot and words making no sense, and still tries to concentrate forward, forward, as Peter climbs in next to him. He wonders what this looks like, the assistant and his boss, laying stiffly next to each other (well, Martin is, at least; he’s not about to look over and see how Peter is reacting to the situation) in a room entirely at odds with their existence, warmth and pinks and ruffles at war with the concept of Peter Lukas himself.

The chill doesn’t reach Martin, the blankets too comfortable, the constant rain white noise against the sharp static of Peter. He finds he misses it. Emptiness, silence.

They sit there for awhile, presumably listening to the outside, Martin still scrolling aimlessly and Peter now too, and Martin peeks over as Peter moves, grabs something from his bag. A little pair of reading glasses. Martin wishes he could stare – instead, he bites his lip, mentally adding that detail to his growing list.

Beside him, Peter clears his throat. “You know, I think we’ve done a very admirable job in entirely ignoring this whole situation.”

Martin can’t help it; he laughs, loudly, then covers his mouth with his hand. “Sorry, I just. I just thought you’d never mention it.”

“I think our silence deserves a raise, honestly,” Peter grins, face illuminated by the blue glare of his phone, and Martin laughs again.

“Well you _do_ have that power! Maybe. I won’t tell Elias if you don’t.”

Peter waves a hand. “He doesn’t need to know anything. Our secret, I promise.”

Martin huffs, pleased. “So did you just forget about the, about the _concept_ of a reservation?”

“Honestly I didn’t think I’d need to, not for a place like this.”

“Hmm,” Martin pretends to ponder, as he turns off his phone. “And here I was just assuming that ordering the car took all the sociability out of you for the day.”

Peter turns and levels him with a look, eyebrow quirked and a half-smirk on his face. “Please, Martin. It took all the sociability out of me for the _week_.”

He’s so close. Martin wonders what it’d be like to kiss him. He’s never kissed anyone with a beard before. His throat is dry.

“And yet,” he clears his throat. “And yet you’re stuck here with me. So sad.”

Peter hums, adjusting his glasses and looking back through his phone. Martin can see apartment buildings and houses and interiors, black and white slowly developing to coloured modernity.

“I don’t mind,” Peter says, then, and it seems like it’s more to himself than to Martin.

He nods in agreement, but leaves Peter to his thoughts. Best not to push too far, and he’s thankful that the dark hides the creep of heat on his cheeks. He turns over, facing away from Peter, into the crevices of the rest of the room, the empty closet, the light slinking in from under the door, everything still and fuzzy.

“G’night, Peter.”

A soft hum in response; Martin falls asleep easily, breathing in the scent of shampoo and Peter next to him.

-

It’s the total silence that wakes him up the next morning; it takes him a moment to realize, but the rain has finally stopped its assault, it seems. It’s this that he notices first, forgetting, for a moment, where he is, who he’s pressed up against.

Oh.

He wills himself not to start, merely to crack open one eye against what little sun Peter has managed not to block out. It’s blue before him, all blue, his forehead pressed deeply into the fabric across Peter’s back, the rest of him curled tight though not quite touching Peter, exactly. His back is colder than the rest of him, and he thinks that he must have gotten closer to Peter during the night, to follow the blankets that had been stolen from him.

Peter, thankfully, still seems to be asleep, and Martin hasn’t moved for he can feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing against his cheek, his eyelids. It’s calming; how long has it been since he’s touched someone else, even just like this? It’s not like this can last forever, but. Another twenty minutes is all he asks.

He closes his eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all these people do is fuckin eat and sleep because all I want to do is eat and sleep  
> you can find me on twitter at [@emperiocism](https://twitter.com/emperiocism)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aHHHH my good friend Baz drew me a compilation of scenes from this fic for my birthday!!!! It's AMAZING and I love it SO MUCH and you can see it [here](https://twitter.com/BasiliskBlues/status/1248950668246814720)!!! Go give him some love!!

The alarm goes off at a cool 7:30 AM and wrenches Martin, vertigo-laden and confused, out of his deep second sleep, as far away from Peter as he can get (further than before, too, for he’d managed to curl up even closer in those brief precious minutes). Though he doesn’t look he can feel the mattress shift as Peter wakes, slowly; he hears a yawn, and eventually, as he grips the sheets, his heart calms itself, enough for him to cough and offer a morning tea. He gets a grunt in response – assuming a yes, he gets to work.

Peter, it seems, is not altogether a morning person. As Martin waits for the water to boil he sneaks a glance over at him. He’s sitting up now, on the side of the bed, but his normally rigid shoulders are hunched as he stares out the window. His hair is a mess, tufts of it curling straight up in every direction (similar to himself, Martin thinks, and he’s pleased about that), and his shirt, too, is rucked up and wrinkled; never has Martin seen him so undone and casual, and as he looks on there’s a pang in his chest. When’s the last time he’s hugged somebody, easy intimacy on a cool, clear morning such as this?

It’s loneliness, surely – he wonders if Peter can feel it, can feed off it, or if maybe now he’s too close, that his own issues lay clear and waiting under the radar.

He sips his tea.

Peter accepts the mug with a nod, still staring out the window, even as Martin sits next to him. They stay like that, for a few moments, and Martin is thinking about when the proper time to get up and get changed is when Peter finally speaks.

“There’s more work to be done. I’ll be gone most of the day.”

“You need me for anything?”

Peter shakes his head. A pause.

“Am I in any danger, here?” Martin offers to him, carefully.

“Hm. You shouldn’t be? Keep an eye out for any usual strangeness, but. I’ve got things under control.”

Martin’s hands grow warm around his mug. He hesitates a moment before asking, “Are _you_ in any danger?”

Peter looks at him, gray eyes squinting in the morning light and he looks unguarded, and kind, smiling behind his tea. “You’re not worried about me, are you?”

“I just don’t want to have a _third_ manager in a year, y’know?”

“Ah, so harsh. I’m wounded, betrayed, apoplectic, even!”

“You know what? Forget I said anything.”

“Hmm, you haven’t got any plans on taking me out? Become the Head of the Institute yourself?”

Martin gives him a wry smile. “With the amount of power you’ve given me, Peter, I don’t really need to.”

“So I don’t need to be worried about another coup?”

“Maybe it’s already happened,” Martin laughs at Peter’s false gasp, finishing off his tea.

“Ah, such a cruel boy,” Peter sighs into the air, and Martin shivers.

-

Peter takes his leave first, allowing Martin the luxury of taking his time. He dresses nicely – his daydream of dining with Peter somewhere picturesque and dark is most likely dashed, as Peter hadn’t given him a time frame whatsoever of his mysterious work, but still he puts on his nice shirt and the sweater and his jacket. It’s cold outside, the rain giving way to a deep chill rather than humidity, and apropos of nothing Martin decides to wander the area, a little further than the night before, to see the festivals that had allowed him last night.

(He remembers waking that second time, holds it deeply, his comfort against the expanse of Peter’s back, his knees pressed into the back of Peter’s thighs, fists curled up against his shirt. Had Peter known? He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t looked at him strangely, but surely he couldn’t be that heavy of a sleeper.

(Though now, his mind fully in motion, Martin imagines that he is – of a time later, perhaps, Martin tucked up close, enclosed within Peter’s arms, heavy and all-encompassing; and Martin would wake first, nudging up against Peter and tapping to be let free, to start the kettle and the day; and Peter would simply grumble and squeeze him tighter, big hands crossed over his back).

The red in his cheeks is not brought on by the wind. Martin shakes his thoughts and, seeing the open door to a church as he walks, lets the warm smell of bread and jam invite him in.

-

Marmalade Fest ends up being a delightful way to start his morning – belly filled with samples and two paper bags weighed down with tiny jars of sweetness and homemade baked goods. These he drops off quite happily back in their room, and, feeling reinvigorated, makes a decision to find the more elusive Crab Fest (which shouldn’t be hard, already he’d seen stragglers with “All I got at CrabFest 2019 was Crabs” t-shirts) and the promising Romance Author Literary Gathering, or, RALG, if he wanted to use the ugly acronym.

It’s been awhile since he’s been out like this, among swarms of people who weren’t depressed on the tube, the gray and gloom he’d become so accustomed to back home; the shouting and joviality of this small town he knows he couldn’t stand for long but right now, on this bright, clear, cold day he relishes his own anonymity. No one pays him much attention, their eyes not meeting his until he’s suddenly in their space, pleasantly looming and demanding, kindly, their attentions, their sales pitch.

He feels a bit like Peter, in this way. Hopes he’s maybe not quite so intimidating, but there’s something to be said for the small ways his sudden presence affects people, a widening of the eyes, the step back, a glance behind.

He finds at the library and spread beyond into a nearby building the romance convention, filled mostly with older folks with brightly dyed hair who chatter brightly and step kindly out of the way of people who trundle with suitcases and cardboard boxes and heavy bags – the sellers and authors and publishers, amateurs with their cheaply sincere covers and professionals with their names printed larger than the title. Amused, Martin follows the crowd, waiting in the queue to eagerly buy a surprisingly fairly-priced ticket for the afternoon. There’s a certain giddiness in his chest today, at everything being surprisingly _nice_ , and _pleasant_ , and god, he thinks, does he ever deserve it.

There are horrible things in this world, an awfulness champing at the bit, churning screams and savagery out there, but, today, he gets to splurge on fancy marmalade and attend a panel about caveman-themed erotica.

-

Martin stays longer than expected, plucking about in bins and shelves of cheap vintage novels, threadbare and presumably recovered from some grandmother’s basement. He buys some of them, too, checking of course for that familiar, horrifying label, and his hands stray to the supernatural themes; there’s a shelf with ocean, pirate, sailor-themed romance, but he can’t bring himself to even look. In the end, he’s saddled with six of the things, which altogether costs him less than last nights chips.

The sky has grown a little more purple by the time he leaves, and as he walks back to the hotel, looking carefully around him, in alleyways, into dark cars, he can sense a certain strange stillness to the air – it’s quiet: there are no birds, and the last few people on the street seemed subdued, somehow. Still, there’s a fog rolling in from somewhere unknown, grayish whisps filtering out tires and the kerb and remnants of trash, and Martin feels... safe. Perhaps Peter’s finished his job; perhaps he’s back at the hotel, now.

-

He isn’t; Martin enters into the room, chilled from disuse, and notices that his bags are still on the counter, laid out exactly as he’s put them. There is the small tingle of disappointment – he’d wanted to share, but, still, Peter will come back later yet.

Instead, Martin resigns himself to a probable evening of solitude, which isn’t so bad, truly. He cuts and plates himself a little cheese and cracker spread, a charcuterie board for the masses, and the brightness of the jams and the marmalade suit the room better than he or Peter ever could. But he can pretend, for now, and he gets comfy on the bed and flips open the first of his purchases.

-

Martin’s asleep when the door slams open and he thinks, later, that it’s the ragged breath he’s never heard before that truly woke him up.

From the light in the hallway illuminating the hulking figure in the door he can tell it’s Peter who’s staggering in, Peter who lets the door shut loudly behind him and Peter who turns on the light and Peter who is...

The Lukases are a pale breed, but Martin has never seen him look so sickly and ghost-like before: his hair is damp with sweat and flecks of red and plastered onto his forehead, and his hands, though clenched and one gripping tightly to his side, tremble and look clammy, cold.

“Hello, Martin,” he breathes out, slumping against the counter, all false politeness and cheer despite the spread of blood under his hand.

“Oh god, Peter - !”

Peter waves a hand in response, sits heavily on the threadbare carpet. “May have run into... a little bit... of trouble.”

“Just! Fuck, shit, shit, shit,” Martin swears as he clambers out of the bed, half-finished book flopping to the floor and he runs forward, kneeling before Peter. “What _happened_ – no, never mind, let’s get you, let’s get you up.” Peter, luckily, doesn’t protest as Martin grabs at his shoulders, throws a heavy arm over himself to get them both to the promise of cool tiles in the bathroom (somehow, he’s still worried about stains on the floor).

He sits Peter on the edge of the bathtub and Peter leans heavily against the wall – his eyes are closed, but his breath, while still shaky, is becoming even, less laboured.

“That’s good, just breathe like that, just, um.” Martin runs a hand through his hair. “Peter, I don’t know how you... work. Do you need medical attention? Or is this something you wait out?” He eyes the dark spread under Peter’s hand warily, then realizes that his own hand is covered in blood – there’s another wound on his back. “Peter?”

“Got me pretty good, I’ll... give it that.”

“Peter!”

He winces. “Think I might need a little... sewing up. Here and there.” Slowly, very slowly, he moves to undo his shirt buttons, but he’s clumsy, awkward; Martin hates seeing him like this, and lowers himself to kneel by him.

“Shh. I’ve got this,” he says quietly as he undoes them for Peter, and Peter just nods, head thunking on the wall.

It’s slow going to peel the shirt away; both of them hold their breath as it clings to sweat and blood, but Martin knows the undershirt will be worse. Without waiting for Peter’s permission he lifts the hem of that too, guides it over Peter’s arms and cringes as the tattered edges rip from the warm wetness of both wounds.

“There we go, there we go,” he murmurs, tossing both shirts into the tub and standing to grab some hand towels, wetting them with warm water and wringing out the excess. He hands one over for Peter to hold against his side, and he begins to wipe gently behind Peter’s left shoulder. The wound reveals itself, a scratchy thing either done by a serrated knife, or...

“What did this to you?”

“Was only supposed to be one of them. Guess something... something else caught the scent.”

“...a Hunter?”

“Mm.”

Martin rinses the towel in the sink, watches pink water run down the white porcelain. “So what were _you_ there for? Here, give me that.” He hands it to Peter, takes the blood soaked one away.

“It’s been raining awfully hard,” Peter says; his voice is scratchier than usual and he looks gray, washed out, exhausted.

“...Buried, then.”

“Smart lad.”

Martin hums in response. It’s enough for now – other than Peter maybe bleeding out in the tub there doesn’t seem to be any current danger. “Don’t suppose you’ll want to go to hospital?”

“Ugh.”

“Thought so. Look, just hang on, okay? I’m going to... look for something.” Peter just grunts.

There’s nothing under the counter, and so Martin heads back to the main room to pace back and forth for a moment to think; he spots the minibar first, a tiny thing he’d checked the first night and grimaced at, but now he grabs what little clinking bottles he can fit in his hands. Then, he starts to rummage – he doesn’t think he brought anything particularly useful but maybe, just maybe...

His hand hits a box, tucked away in some little used compartment, and he brings it out. A sewing kit. Martin turns it over in his hands.

He didn’t... he didn’t bring this. He _knows_ he would have remembered if he did. And this isn’t some extra kit he’d had laying around – that same shade of ocean blue is at the top. Waiting.

Martin makes a decision. He sets the kettle next, opens up a bottle of vodka and winces at the burn in his throat as it goes down. Then he takes a swig of another, saves the rest and more for Peter.

-

Peter eyes him warily as he comes in with the kit, needles on paper towel and soaked. Placing them on the counter, he offers from his pocket a bottle of scotch and vodka.

“Any preference?”

“Both?”

Martin gives him the vodka first.

“This will probably hurt like hell.”

“Not going to... fire you, don’t worry.”

Martin begins. He’s used to fabric, not, he swallows down his trepidation, _skin_ , but he can be cold. He can be calm. The needle slides in easier than expected, and he doesn’t stop even when Peter jumps at the knot he ties. His hands, surprisingly, don’t tremble, and he enters the other side of the wound, pulling the thread taught.

Again.

Again.

Peter’s forehead drops down, rests against his side. He doesn’t think about that weight against him, how vulnerable he is right now, his hands on Peter’s naked back.

“You okay?”

Peter takes another drink, nods. Martins continues to sew him up.

“Soft,” Martin can hear him say, very quietly.

“Hm?”

“Your sweater. It’s nice.”

Oh – he is still wearing it, isn’t he? He chances a look down, sees the blood stain on the hem, a splotch of red on his sleeve. Damn, damn, damn.

“I like it very much. You gave it to me, remember?”

“Right, right. I have good taste.”

“You do.” He finishes up, ties the last knot and cuts the excess off. It’s not his best work, he thinks, but. It’ll do for now. He pats Peter on the back, lightly, and still is astounded that Peter is allowing him this.

“Well we’re all done up here, so - ”

“Looks good on you,” Peter interrupts. He’s fiddling with the hem. “Wish I didn’t bleed all over it.”

“Well... thank you. You can give me another one later, if you’d like.”

“Hm.”

“I’m going to work on your side now, okay?” Getting at this wound is more awkward, and eventually Martin has to kneel between Peter’s legs, arm resting on Peter’s thigh as he starts his work again. Above him, Peter stares at the wall. Martin can hear the thin whistle of static start up.

“Peter. Stay with me.”

“Hurts.”

Martin doesn’t think he’s talking about the stitches.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m almost done.” Peter heaves out a sigh above him; Martin winces as the action produces a fresh stream of blood. Still, with hands now sticky and warm, he finishes up the final few stitches, grabbing another towel to wash off the last of it.

This is probably the closest he’ll ever be to Peter; he just wishes it didn’t come at the cost of pain. He takes a little more time than is strictly necessary to gently wipe around the wound and below, catching the drips that have pooled around his trousers. Slowly, slowly, Peter seems to relax, though Martin isn’t sure if it’s because of the blood loss, or...

He remembers, as a child, getting a cut knee or scrapes on his palms, or a simple cold, his mother leaning over him with a warm, damp cloth, dabbing gently at his skin. How flushed he felt, despite being sick, or injured, how calming it was to have this simple touch.

He stands back up, Peter’s eyes half-lidded and gentle.

“Can you make it to bed?”

He nods slowly, grimacing as he stands, and Martin can see him resist leaning on the wall. He doesn’t touch him as Peter steps forward, despite his shakiness, but he remains next to him until Peter crawls under the covers, lying on his belly as to not disturb his aching back.

It doesn’t take long for Martin to clean up; the towels are all a wash, and these he simply leaves in the tub. They’ll be tossed tomorrow morning, and Peter’s money can pay off any prying questions. The bottles are disposed of, and then Martin changes quickly, quietly, and turns out the lights. As he gets into bed he doesn’t stay quite so close to the edge, and lets the natural dip Peter’s body creates roll him closer to the middle.

It’s warm underneath, with both of them lying so close, and suddenly Martin feels utterly drained, his body heavy and mind sluggish.

“Night, Peter,” he whispers.

It’s quiet for a few moments, and he’s closed his eyes when he hears an even softer, “Thank you.”

Gently, gently, Martin reaches forward and places lightly on Peter’s back his hand, palm flat; he holds it there for a few moments, before retreating it back under himself, and holds Peter’s warmth by his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am not a doctor
> 
> you can find me on twitter at [@emperiocism](https://twitter.com/emperiocism)!


	7. Chapter 7

In this thick, empty space, there is someone else – it’s an uncomfortable feeling, an itch in the eye, a squirm under skin, something not quite right in what should be a most serene abode. And so Martin wanders, searching and desperate to get it _out_ , to reclaim this place as his own.

It’s a voice that reaches him first, unknown, but not unkind.

“Excuse me? Hello? I’m afraid I’ve gotten a little turned around.”

“You’re not... nobody’s supposed to _be_ here.” Martin squints into the gray distance but there’s not much to be seen – maybe a slightly darker figure, somewhere, but he can’t trust his eyes well enough to make it out.

“And yet...” The voice says something else, but there’s static in way. “...t me here.”

“Hm.”

“You seem very tired, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I _do_ mind, in fact,” Martin answers, suspiciously. It seems to him that the air is becoming warmer, heavier, and there’s a sound coming in from far away, plodding and relentless. He doesn’t like this – he recognizes where he is, but just barely, the fog familiar and same with the gentle hush of water, somewhere, but he isn’t quite sure how he _got_ here, is all.

“It’s not a bad place to rest though, is it? Touch cold for me, but, well. All the better to slumber in.”

“Go away.”

“You should rest those eyes, hm? Rest that weary head. Away from that brute.” The voice is becoming less pleasant, and the first drops of rain splatter onto Martin – he raises an arm up, defensive.

“No, this is... this is our space.”

“‘Our?’ Somehow I don’t that’s a word used here much. How quaint.”

More rain, now, the thunder rolling in faster in this nowhere space – he gets the sense that the voice is still speaking but there’s nothing to be heard over all the static and rush of water and the very real, frightening (nothing should be frightening here, why is he afraid?) possibility of something overwhelming about to swarm –

Oh. There’s something in his pocket, and he fishes it out, quickly. A thread, blue. Where does he remember this from?

But it’s leading him elsewhere and disappears into nothingness and in this nowhere space with nowhere time the water is now up to his knees, his thighs, quickly gaining on him and Martin follows the thread with loyal abandon. It’s taught and he tugs with patience, holds on tight despite the water up to his neck now, past his face, and the last thing he hears is the deafening rush of static that kills the thunder.

-

Martin’s eyes snap open to see Peter’s, close, closer than he’s ever been, and it takes him another moment to realize that Peter is on top of him, _straddling_ him; which he’ll think is rather nice later but right now he struggles for that first gasp of air under the heft of Peter, his thighs slotted over Martin’s own, Martin’s lifted to press Peter forward, closer, god he’s so close –

“Wh – what,” is the only thing Martin can get out, brain still trying to catch up. There’s remnants of static in the air, and Martin feels fuzzy, numb, not quite right. Peter doesn’t move, and now Martin can see his hands poised above Martin’s chest, waiting.

There’s a pause, where both of them don’t speak, and Peter looks the most uncomfortable Martin has ever seen him.

“Were you... were you about to give me _CPR_?”

Peter glances away, staring intently at a pillow instead, hands wavering before he pulls them back into his own space. Martin lets his head flop down, tries to sort his muddled mind out.

“I wasn’t breathing?”

“Mn.”

“Oh.”

Another pause – Peter doesn’t quite seem to realize where he is, or maybe didn’t think this far ahead, and Martin allows him to figure it out on his own; either way, the weight of Peter is comforting, a security blanket against his awful dream. He looks away from Peter and stares at the stucco-d ceiling instead, lets his thoughts drift into nothingness.

It’s as Peter begins to shakily climb off him (Martin winces at the obvious effort and pain this causes), that he looks down and sees his own hand clenched tight, skin pale at the creases and going numb.

He’s holding a string.

“Peter,” he begins, sitting up slightly, “I think I’ve...”

“Yeah,” Peter answers, and he’s standing next to Martin now, and he should be tall and imposing in the weak light the lamp gives off but instead he seem sombre, frail. “I can feel it.”

The string leads to the wound on Peter’s side, and for a moment Martin’s afraid he’s unraveled it through the night, somehow; but his stitches are still there, Peter’s skin raw and pink and painful. The string had just... gotten longer, Martin supposes, because he’d certainly not used this much.

Slowly, Martin releases his hold on it, lets it flutter to the ground. Peter holds his wound, and they both stare at the blue thread dangling from him.

“I don’t understand.”

“I _think_ you’ve gotten yourself some new friends.”

-

It’s only later in the car when Martin breaks the silence they’d held in tandem since that morning, apart from small talk, timings and the general hustle of leaving for good. He figures it’s easier here, Peter unable to escape, and he broaches the subject gently – of the purpose of his and Peter’s visit (the Choke’s arrival, a strike to prevent some plan being ruined, a Hunter’s unfortunate involvement), all things easy enough to parse, but as Martin hesitantly brings up his dream, the voice, the final scream of static and his way out, Peter’s mood turns silent, uncomfortable. The air inside the car grows colder, and for once Martin can truly feel it, and he shivers.

Still, he persists, and tries for a lighter tone.

“So, um. Have you ever given someone CPR before?”

Silence.

“Because _I’ve_ heard that to really make it work, you need to like, almost break their ribs? So I’m glad it didn’t come to that.” He taps on the wheel, bobs his head. “But on the other hand, I’d really rather not drown in my dreams? Or die in a room that looked like a dollhouse exploded all over it. Although I have to say, the chocolates were a nice touch. Did you get any? I want to say they were hand-made, but then again I’ve never splurged on that sort of thing before so who knows -”

“You ate them all,” Peter finally interrupts, lightly.

“Well then you should have gotten to them sooner, spent a little more time in this nice room _you_ paid for.”

“Spent a little more time with _you_ , you mean.”

Martin keeps his eyes on the road, hoping that Peter hasn’t seen his hands clenching on the wheel. “I had a fantastic time all by myself, I’ll have you know. I learned a lot!”

“I’m sure the romance convention was very academic, yes.” He hears an amused sigh, and chances a glance over to see Peter looking at him, eyes narrowed. “I saw your books.”

“...I’m supporting the local arts.”

“I’m thinking they’ll need a lot more support than you can possibly give.”

“Ha! Maybe. I enjoy them though.”

“Hm. I don’t really get things like that.”

“What, books in general? The genre?” Peter shrugs, and Martin thinks it over. “Romance?”

Silence again. Martin signals his turn, merging over, and thankful that the drive back has so far been easy, the weather clear and gray.

Casually, as casually as possible, Martin asks him, “So do you date, much? At all?”

Luckily, Peter just huffs out a laugh. “Servants of the Forsaken don’t really... date. Not exactly in our best interests.”

“Don’t you Lukas’ all marry off though? Big family name like that?”

“When needed.”

“To continue on the line, right?”

“Mm.”

“Sooo.” Martin looks back at him and waggles his eyebrows in what he hopes is a cheeky manner, to off-put this gathering of information. “Is there a Peter Lukas Junior running around somewhere?”

At that, Peter laughs again, and Martin’s burgeoning nerves are soothed. Peter’s looking out the window, hand pressed against his cheek, the other thumbing at the seam of his suit jacket. “No, no, definitely not.”

“Ah, a confirmed bachelor then,” Martin nods, sagely.

“Something like that. Relationships aren’t really in my wheelhouse.”

“Huh. Is that you talking, or the Forsaken?”

“I’d say they’re one and the same.”

“And _I’d_ say while there’s a pretty hefty influence there, you still exist, underneath it all. Flesh and bone.”

Peter shifts, but doesn’t answer right away, and Martin’s afraid he’s gone too far.

“Sorry. Consider it the Beholding in me?”

“...I’ll consider. Why are you so interested anyways?”

“Oh! Uh, well.” He shrugs and fishes around for a plausible answer. “You’re gone all the time on the _Tundra_ , but when you’re here you seem to have a lot of free time, a lot of money... Guess I’m just curious as to what you get up to. How you entertain yourself?”

“Hm.” Peter seems to honestly consider this, and takes a moment to think. “Well, I read the books you bring into the office. And I do like sneaking up on you.” Another lengthy pause. “I suppose that’s it, really.”

“...Peter, I think what you’re saying is that _I’m_ your entertainment.”

“Oh! Yes, I suppose so.” And Peter looks over, inordinately pleased by this revelation, and all Martin wants to do is bang his head on the steering wheel to distract himself from his quickly warming cheeks. How did Peter manage to be so disarmingly charming all the time?

“Well, I’m, I’m glad to be of use, then.”

“Hm.”

“Also, um, not to get too serious here, but. Thank you? For this morning, for... for saving my life.”

“For almost breaking your ribs, you mean.”

Martin snorts. “You know what I mean. Although, granted, I don’t think it would’ve worked because I get the feeling you don’t actually know how to perform it -”

“That is true!”

“- _but_ I still appreciate the effort. And also the whole... dream banishment thing. But I don’t really want to... think about that.”

“It is unusual to sacrifice someone twice.”

“Peter...”

“I’ll say no more. Though you did quite well yourself, with that thread trick.”

Martin blows out his cheeks. “Yeah, I still... hm. I am not comfortable with that.”

“Just watch out for any eight-legged friends, yeah?”

“You know I was planning on buying a tarantula soon...”

“Oh, oh _please_ don’t do that. Do you want a dog? I’ll buy you a dog!”

All in all, Martin thinks, as he slams the trunk shut outside the Institute, this could have gone far worse. He raises a hand to Peter as he leaves the parking lot, and in return Peter gives a small, awkward wave, before fading out of existence for awhile.

-

It’s Monday, but Peter’s given him the day off to recuperate. Martin does so with a lazy indulgence, emotions out-of-wack when the weekend’s events catch up to him, and so he sleeps in, rereads a favourite few chapters, checks his phone and, against Peter’s wishes, browses for a nice Chilean Rose, or a Red-Knee.

It’s nice, quiet, everyone else off for the day and he feels a particular delight about missing work, like he’s back at school and home sick with a weak cold, free to do as he pleases. The day is spent lounging around, not even changing out of his pyjamas, flipping through his latest purchases (okay, yes, most of them are terrible, but there’s something absolutely fun about the sincerity and the secrecy he has in reading them, all alone and tucked under a plethora of blankets and pillows and eating the most decadent brand of frozen pizza he could find).

Around six o’clock, as he’s watching a documentary on sea life and cheering on doomed seals surrounded by orcas, there’s a quick knock at the door – outside, from his window, he can see a very normal delivery vehicle, a recognizable brand name that isn’t a scary duo, and so is confident enough to see what awaits him outside on his step.

It’s a small enough paper bag, plain, but the kind of plain that proclaims an inherent unconcern over labeling, or, god forbid, _advertising_ , rather than cheapness; the box inside is a simple mint colour, with thin lettering on the side (in french, even!), held together by a delicate band of pink ribbon. Martin thumbs off the ribbon, carefully, and opens the box.

Inside, tucked in their own small spaces, are chocolates – dark, milk, and white, some smooth, some drizzled with thin trails of maroon and caramel, all of them smelling rich and decadent and Martin knows, from the uniqueness of each one, that these are hand-made, crafted for this specific order, and – he pops one in his mouth, chewing slowly – steps above what he’d had the previous few days. He can’t help but moan softly as it melts inside his mouth, and in a dramatic fashion he flops back down onto his couch, blankets askew and legs over the arm; enjoying another one as the television drones on quietly, and he closes his eyes and daydreams of Peter tasting his gift on his tongue.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey if you all wanted a bit more Peter/Martin my absolutely fantastic gf wrote a fic of this fic! It takes place when they're in the hotel and it is the sweetest thing in the world. You can read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23924689)!! Please give it lots of love <3

Martin lifts the flute of champagne to his lips once more, and once more takes the barest of sips – it’s not that it’s bad, it’s quite good, in fact, when’s the last time he’s even had champagne? - but this is his third glass in as many hours and he’d like to make this one last. And to not make a fool of himself.

They’re at a party, he and Peter, though Martin hasn’t seen Peter in an hour and that last glance was a brief sighting of him looming over a tiny yet built young woman, who’d laughed like a wind chime at some joke Peter must have told. There’s a jealous part that fumes and flares up, but this he tries to tamp down, aware that these feelings are a reaction to being left behind in this strange place, to being...

“Lonely?”

Simon Fairchild. Lovely. Martin rolls his eyes and tries to avoid looking directly at the man, which is a job in and of itself – Simon is wearing a suit that is garishly orange and yet somehow he pulls it off, and what little white hair he has is tufted and raised and Martin finds he looks like he walked off the set of Willy Wonka after a bender.

“No, no. _I’m_ having a _great_ time,” he murmurs after a moment, taking another drink.

“Looks like he is too, eh?” Simon looks up at him, which is disconcerting, because it’s so rare that people actually _look_ at him anymore, but Simon’s piercing gaze could give Elias’ a run for his money,

Or Peter’s.

Sometimes, when it’s late at night and he’s watching some romcom, during the commercials he’ll feel himself get sappy, and romantic; and imagines himself taking Peter’s big head in his hands and facing him toward Martin, just so he can look into his eyes, really look – see the true washed out blues and grays, the shock of them looking back.

Imagines, too, their hotel stay, Peter heavy on top and what would have happened had one of them leaned forward, stolen the space between them...

His fingers tighten on the stem.

“It’s quite sweet, y’know.”

“Hm?”

“How much you care.”

“I do _not_ -” But it’s a failed protest, lost before he even finishes, and Simon just laughs openly at him. “Is – is it obvious?”

“I’ll alleviate your feelings and say not quite. But even Harriet isn’t paying as much attention to him as _you_ are.”

“Ugh.” This is stupid. “I feel like I’m fifteen all over again.”

“If it helps, I’ve never seen him pal around with anyone _else_ quite so often.”

Martin narrows his eyes, though inwardly he’s secretly pleased.

“’Pal around?’ It’s not like we _go_ anywhere. And I haven’t seen _you_ since that one time -”

Simon puts up a hand, tiny and cracked with age.

“All I mean to say is that he talks an awful lot about you.”

Mollified, Martin takes another sip, looks back into the crowd for Peter but he’s gone. Again.

“Aren’t you going to ask, ‘all good things I hope?’”

“Hm.”

“Oh, you’re no fun. But,” Simon tips his head back, drops in a snapper crudo and continues, still chewing, “Yes, all good things. Sometimes I think the poor brute might even miss you, which in actuality is _quite_ helpful for his Patron. Ah! Speak of the devil. Hello Peter.”

Martin starts, the dark blue of Peter’s suit taking up half his vision as he sidles alongside them. Peter merely hums, taking a sip of his own wine.

“You two are _so_ alike. So... quiet.”

“I hope you weren’t talking about me too much?”

“Oh, never,” Simon waves a hand languidly, though he’s got a rakish grin that Martin knows Peter doesn’t trust. “I was just about to say how delightful you’ve been, since you two kids got together.” Simon, the devil, pauses for a moment, and Martin can only stiffen his shoulders and feel his fist clenched around the stem of his glass – Simon’s neck, he projects into the universe, but Simon just winks at him. “Working together, I mean.”

“Is that so,” Peter answers tonelessly, looking beyond Simon in that particular way of his.

“Well not _now_ , you loaf. Anyways, I must be off. Here,” and he snaps his fingers, bringing over a waiter. He takes the entire tray off her hands, the waiter smart enough not to make a show of surprise, and hands it off to Martin who accepts it with a small _oomf_. “I’ve seen neither of you eat all night and Martin here has polished off a few glasses already. Eat! Be merry! I’d say mingle but we all know that’s not very fun for you two. Ta-ta!”

And in a moment he’s gone, and Martin looks from the tray up to Peter, who catches his eye, and sighs.

“His own little whirlwind, isn’t he?”

“Is he _always_ like that? How can you stand it?”

“Mm. You get used to it. Now then.” Peter leans closer, and both him and Martin ponder over their options; Martin breathes in the warm scent of puff pastry and spinach, of figs and salmon.

“I really do want to ravage this entire plate,” Martin sighs in a moment of honesty.

“And I’d rather not share with the rest. Here.” Peter gently places his hand on Martin’s upper arm, and in this way guides him forward through the chattering crowd that parts so easily and unconsciously before them. As they pass through a hallway Peter’s hand falls to his side, but still he stays close, and Martin concentrates only on the feeling of an elbow, a bicep, through their suits. The place is excessively large, of course, hallways uncomfortably wide, and Martin feels like he’d appreciate Peter staying so close even if he didn’t have a raging crush on the man.

As they continue forward the noise of the party dims until only the sharpest of laughs can be heard, but only barely, and Martin hears Peter breathe in.

“Better?”

He only nods, but that’s good enough; and soon Martin finds himself pointed in the direction of a closed door, one of many, and he wonders how often Peter’s been here. Still, he’d prefer to keep his questions for more important things, and soon Peter half-runs to get ahead of him, opening the door into a dimly lit room.

Martin enters, a thrill going through him as he hears the click of it closing behind him. He blinks, getting used to the wan light, and sees that it must be a storage room of sorts – there’s a bed, but there’s boxes stacked all around and on top, books and paintings and empty frames spilled everywhere; in the corner what looks to be stacks of mirrors, facing away from them; and a multitude of chairs and tables laying thrush against every wall.

In short, it’s chaos, but in a way it reminds him of the archives and the clutter is relaxing, homey, against the expanse of the house. Already Peter is laying waste to whatever order the boxes may have once been in, simply tossing them off the edge and now dragging a table near the side of the bed; it’s charming, Martin thinks, standing off to the side watching him. The simplicity of the labour, the set of Peter’s mouth, amused but concentrating, and he can see his wide shoulders at work beneath the suit. The stage soon becomes set, and Peter sits, patting the space beside him and scooting over.

“It’s a little dusty, but what can you do.”

“I like it. It’s quiet,” Martin answers as he walks over, placing the tray on the table and sitting next to Peter. He crosses his feet, extends them out; he feels the alcohol running through him now and his limbs are loose, his head light, and he pops a spinach puff pastry in his mouth before flopping backwards.

“You’ll get your suit dirty,” Peter chides. Martin just stretches out his arms behind him and huffs out a laugh.

“You’ll buy me a new one, right?”

“Absolutely not.”

Martin heaves in a fake, great gasp.

“Surely you won’t let me represent the Institute in _this_ old thing!”

“No, no, I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to go out there and embarrass yourself. And Elias, I suppose.”

“Oh, such a cruel boss, a horrid boss!”

“Oh such a needy assistant, an expensive assistant!” Peter laughs, picking through the tray and eating a crème fraîche tart, and another. Martin knocks his foot against Peter’s calf, flirtatiously.

“ _You_ like it though.”

“Hm?” His mouth is full – there’s a fleck of the cream on his fingertips, but Martin drags his eyes up to meet Peter's.

“Buying me nice things.”

Peter chews at this, thoughtfully, and his eyes wander downwards – Martin thinks, hopes, downwards to appreciate the clothing he’s purchased for him, Martin at Peter’s expense, Martin in the thrall of a store he didn’t dare attempt to pronounce, the silky interior of the jacket against his wrists, his throat, the trousers pressed perfectly; his ankles in thin socks in the most expensive shoes he’ll ever own; a shoe that he now presses against Peter’s calf again, this time letting it stay there, feeling the fall of fabric as he mindlessly draws circles with the tip.

He feels at the contact the low thrum of static.

“Martin...”

“Peter.” He tears his eyes away, limbs back in their own space, and the static calms; he looks instead to the ceiling – it’s been half painted, and he stares up at the flecks of paint he assumes must be stars. Beside him, he can feel Peter slowly loosen up, until he, too, lays back beside Martin, hands clasped over his chest versus Martin’s spread out behind him, like a snow angel.

“You’ll get your suit dirty.”

Peter’s eyes are closed but he smacks Martin on the side with his hand anyways.

“Hush.”

“Fine, fine.”

They stay like that, for awhile – eventually Martin gets used to the silence, can pick out the clattering of dishes, the general noise of _people_ all milling about, but it’s... nice. Calming. So far away from everyone who might matter, no one looking for him, still and silent rooms away.

“I’m almost sorry I’m not a part of it,” Martin whispers. Peter cracks an eye open, looks at him. “The Lonely.”

“...Hm. The Mother wants who she wants,” he sighs with a small shrug, digging himself deeper into the mattress. “Do wish you were on _my_ side, though.”

“I’m still on your side, Peter,” Martin answers.

“I’m glad for it.”

“Hey,” Martin protests softly, reaching out to touch Peter’s shoulder. “I am. Honest. With the Extinction and... and everything else.” Moments pass – in the distance, someone drops a dish, another cheers, the incredibly slow breath of Peter in between.

“Except for eating people,” he offers with a grin. Martin rolls his eyes.

“Yes, _alright_ , except for that.”

-

They don’t stay for much longer, eventually sitting up and finishing off the food, not saying much else; they go back to the party, and Martin pointedly ignores every salacious look Simon gives them at their rucked up suits, the dust on their backs, choosing instead to down a last glass of wine. He ignores with blunt indifference the small, spilled blotches on a cuff, his chest. It’s Harriet ( _bless_ her, he thinks, mind fuzzy with the chandelier lights and a full stomach) who calls them a cab, singular, and she drops the phone back into Peter’s hand.

“What, no limo?” Peter grins – he looks lazy, sated; Martin can’t help but gaze at him with abject fondness. Harriet catches his eye and laughs.

“Treat him on your _own_ time.”

They wait outside – the air is crisp, clear, a little cold but Martin doesn’t mind, just sits down on a lower step with his knees up to his chest. Peter is a few feet a way, hands in his pockets and staring into the dark. He’s stiff-backed and formal, suit mussed up but still looking like the heir to some great throne (which, Martin supposes, he is, but how is that possible? this strange man?); his white hair in stark contrast to the night and tousled softy with the wind.

“I had a good time tonight.”

Peter looks over with mild surprise.

“Yeah?”

“Mm. I mean, I thought it was going to be _awful_ , but well.”

Peter tilts his head, contemplating.

“Good food. Can’t complain about the drinks.”

“ _God_ , no.” He rolls his head to the side, looking at Peter, drinking in the sight. “...What about the company?”

In the distance he can see headlights coming up the long driveway, and Peter looks away; soon he will be awash in harsh light but Martin likes him like this – an oil painting, romantic, dark hues barely lit by the house behind them.

“You don’t really... _count_ , as company.” He’s soft-spoken, but Martin hears a hint of a smile in his voice. “You know that.”

Martin shivers at the words, hides his smile behind his knees.

-

They’re mostly silent in the cab. Martin looks out the window, staring as the streets pass them by, houses becoming less impressive as they go first to his flat. Beside him, Peter fiddles with his phone for a few minutes, the tucks it back into his pocket; like their road trip, he then settles in, hands on his lap, eyes closed. They both take up most of the back seat – Martin’s knee is touching Peter’s, and neither of them move away.

He thinks to earlier that day, changing in the office bathroom into his new suit: running his hands over the cool fabric and slick lining, the perfect drape of trousers over his newly shined shoes. And when he’d exited Peter had been there, apparently waiting, and Martin had seen the flick of his gaze drag downward, then back up – appraising.

Approving.

In the car, Martin blows out a puff of air, and he can feel he cheeks turning red.

The roads are quiet this night and it doesn’t take them long to reach his place – but as he climbs out he’s surprised to find Peter doing the same; Peter stretches, arms over his head, shaking out a leg, now free from the cramped cab.

Martin gives him a curious look.

“Figured I’ll walk back,” he shrugs, looking not at him but at the building. “Sober up.”

“You’re drunk? You don’t seem it.”

“No?”

“Well.” Martin glances back from digging his keys out, looking him over. “You, um, seem a little flushed? And...” he has to think over his words, brain stumbling as Peter’s gaze comes back to him. “A little looser, maybe. I mean, not that you’re like _talking_ a lot or anything, or really much at all. Actually you’ve been really quiet? Which – which isn’t a bad thing, I think it just means that you’re... comfortable.”

Peter actually looks surprised at that, and before he can say anything in response Martin marches onward with his words. “ _Anyways_ , did you want to come up before you head out? Grab a, a cup of tea, to warm up?”

Peter hums as he picks his way over, standing not too close but enough to loom, and Martin has to tilt his head back to match his eyes. Even after all this time, Martin finds it hard to decipher these looks of his: staring, unblinking, distant. Peter nods his assent.

“To warm up.”

“Alright,” Martin says, swallowing, and unlocks the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, more food. Who would've guessed! I gotta stop writing when I'm hungry.
> 
> Anyways, sorry for the long wait everyone - just so you all know there will probably be one more chapter. We're almost there!


	9. Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the end of this quiet romance! I've very much enjoyed this little journey and I hope you feel the same. Thank you so much to everyone who has read, kudos'd or commented! It means a million to me. 
> 
> Please enjoy. <3

Martin shucks off his coat once inside, draping it on the hanger; he can tell that Peter does not do the same, and he simply follows him in, quiet, hands in his pockets, still as a mountain.

 _If that’s the case_ , Martin thinks a little wildly, then I shall be the river.

He nods off towards the living room area, directing Peter with a few murmured words, something about tea. Peter assents and there’s a crooked lilt to his his lips, a half-smile, one that makes Martin avert his eyes before he can stare and he quickly trots off to the kitchen to set the kettle. He stays in there, tidying for a few moments, choosing his best mugs from the back of the cupboard and allowing Peter his space – he, too, has deliberately not asked for what Peter might like; figures that, one, he has good taste anyways, and two, that that’s another aspect of _knowing_ that Peter may not want to tell. Let him have this; let him feel safe.

Because it’s a waiting game, Martin knows – he’s waited a long time, very long, and there’s a sense of urgency that he can feel coiling in his gut. He’ll make his move, tonight, because it’s the proper time: both of them a little drunk, full and nicely so, looking their best and already Martin’s got Peter all over him, his clothes; and his flat, too, touches of warmth and colour but Peter must be able to sense the chill of loneliness that Martin has maintained, dust settling in unused corners and chairs, dishes for one, everything he owns for one.

In the windowsill in front of the sink a small spider rests – it’s been there for awhile but the web has gotten bigger, more beautiful by the glare of the streetlights below.

“Wish me luck,” he whispers, and the kettle starts to whine.

-

From his viewpoint in the kitchen entrance Martin can see Peter waiting, seated on the sagging couch. He’s far too big for it, shoulders high above the back, seemingly staring straight ahead. And yet... he doesn’t look entirely out of place, but maybe, Martin thinks, that’s because Peter always looks out of place anyways. The man is never _comfortable_ , always looking a little ways away, stiff posture borne from formality, and there is the innate confidence, sure, his cool glare, but it never seems to... belong.

None of Martin’s furniture matches, either. Maybe Peter could fit in with all these spare parts, hidden from the world.

Oh, but he is a beast, Martin knows. He could never belong to anyone at all.

“It _is_ a very interesting wall choice, I agree,” Martin half-laughs as he enters, holding two mugs. Peter glances back and chuckles, rising halfway to take one from Martin’s hands.

“Best damn beige I’ve ever seen.”

“Why _thank you_ , I chose this place specifically for the colour palette, don’t you know.” Martin takes a seat beside him – there’s an armchair nearby, but. Peter’s weight tips the cushions in his direction, and Martin has to steady a foot on the ground from falling into his vicinity.

“I know nothing,” Peter answers with a wink.

“Oh, hush. You know lots of things.” Martin blushes, covers it up by sipping his too-hot tea. “Kind of useless things, but they’re... neat.”

“You don’t need to pretend to like ships, Martin.”

“I _do_ like them though! Or at least. The _concept_ of them. And I want to – you know – support your interests. Or whatever.”

“Or whatever.”

“Hmph.”

“The offer still stands, you know,” Peter resumes after a pause to sip his tea, waves his hand. He continues at Martin’s questioning look. “To go on the Tundra. Whisk you away somewhere.” The edges of his eyes are crinkled and Peter looks... amused. Happy. Martin can’t help himself.

“You’ve already - “ Martin stops. Licks his lips, and Peter’s eyes follow, and with a bravery Martin didn’t know he had he places his hand down on Peter’s thigh.

 _Upper_ thigh.

Peter seems to fitz out for a solid moment – eyebrows raised, head slightly tilted in contemplation, a half intake of breath that Martin holds with him; his fingers dig in slightly, can feel the give of fabric and flesh, and warmth. He scoots closer.

Static builds, that old familiar sound, frightening now not because of its eldritch implications but because Peter _can’t_ leave, not yet, not until _something_ has happened, good or bad. His fingers dig deeper, less sensual and more as an anchor to cling to, for Peter to cling to. The static climbs to a steady whine.

“Do – do _not_ leave,” he demands. To his credit, Peter does not disappear. The static is still ringing but Peter has gone back to breathing and is now just... looking. At his hand. Martin retreats, folds his hands in his lap, and Peter visibly relaxes.

There’s quiet for a few seconds, before Martin realizes Peter is waiting for him to speak. Dammit.

“I, uh,” he clears his throat, takes a cue from Peter and looks over his shoulder. How red is his face, he wonders? He feels like he’s burning up, the fever only increasing as time ticks slowly on, and he buries his face in his hands. “ _God_. I _like_ you Peter, god help me, have for a while now. Figured tonight would be the, you know, _proper_ time to do anything about it, but now I, uh, I see that _that_ is a hilarious mistake! And, um, this whole thing is, so if you just... if you need to, to go -”

“I thought you didn’t want me to leave?”

“...You’re – you’re right, I did say that, didn’t I?” He chokes out a laugh. “Silly me.” He chances a glance up. Peter is still looking at him, but at least that damned static has faded away. But he doesn’t look angry, more just contemplative.

“Oh, you’re waiting for me to say something, right?”

“I – yes, that would be, um. Nice.”

“Ah. Hm.”

Another lengthy pause. Martin can see outside his window from where he’s seated, and the sky looks a little more gray than the black it should be. Has Peter moved them? Are they in the Lonely somewhere, Peter deciding how to simply abandon him here?

“Okay, um, listen if it’s a no you can just. Say so. I won’t be offended? And I’ll just die of humiliation later but then, y’know, we can forget the whole thing come work.”

“I haven’t exactly said _no_ , Martin.”

“You haven’t exactly said _anything_ ,” Martin answers. His palms are sweating, a churning in his gut, but at Peter’s answer, there is the possibility of something like hope.

“I’m just...” Now it’s Peter’s turn to be awkward, and Martin feels somewhat vindicated. “This sort of thing isn’t something I’m particularly... _experienced_ with.” He picks at a piece of invisible lint on his leg, and the gears turn in Martin’s mind.

“But would you say you’re, ah, _averse_ to this... sort of thing?” He feels like they’re hashing out some very important deal, but, then again, he supposes they are. In front of him Peter narrows his eyes, still looking away, and his fingers tap out a consistent rhythm on the upholstery. Martin waits with a held breath – he feels like he’s being too loud, taking up too much air and space. Why had he talked so much, before? Stumbling over all his words like a teenager, never mind that he’s half drunk and feeling it.

His mind begins to spin downwards and he senses tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. Christ but his emotions are all over the place tonight. He wipes at them, hoping Peter doesn’t see. No matter: Peter’s turned a little ways from him now, eyes flicked down towards his feet.

He’s shy, Martin realizes (well, he hopes). He’s out of his boundaries, without a paddle. It doesn’t seem like Peter’s going to speak anytime soon, and Martin forces himself to sit back, to attempt to relax, to give Peter his space.

Time passes. It’s very quiet outside, and when Peter does speak, it’s very softly.

“No, no I don’t think so. Not if it’s with you.”

Martin straightens up, raises his eyebrows. Despite how much he wants to touch Peter now, place a hand on his back, he refrains, staring until Peter glances over and catches his eye.

“Oh, don’t look so happy,” Peter manages with a quirked grin. And it’s true – Martin can feel the tug at the corners of his mouth, the beginning ache of a smile and his cheeks all flushed.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say.

“You are absolutely not sorry.”

Martin giggles a little at that, scooches closer until their thighs are touching once more – no static.

“No static,” Martin says aloud, just to fill the air. “Is this okay?” A nod in response, Peter looking down. Martin places his hand back on his thigh. “How about this?”

There’s a thrum that he can feel on his skin, the hint of a whistle and electric numbness, but that’s all it is – nothing shrill, and while Peter is a little stiff next to him it’s not like he seems – scared, or anything. Slowly, gently, Martin leans into him, his head on Peter’s shoulder, and they both look not at each other but just at nothing, comfortable in their silence. He can feel the rise of fall as Peter breathes, a touch fast at first but as the minutes tick by it slows to a crawl, and Martin tries to match his own to it. The familiar static calms down to a mere hum.

“This is nice,” Peter finally says, barely above a whisper.

“It is,” Martin agrees. “And you’re _sure_ you’re -”

“Yes, Martin. It’s just been awhile, that’s all. Going to take some time to – to get used to this.”

“Well, you know I’m _very_ good at waiting.” Peter laughs at that.

“And how long have you been waiting then? For me?”

“Hm,” he has to think about that, for a moment. “I mean, not right at the beginning, or anything, but when you sort of got used to me, I guess? You’d just come in and start _talking_ and it was so strange at first but it was sort of... I don’t know. It was nice to have someone around.”

“I _do_ do that a lot, don’t I?”

“It’s not a bad thing! Sometimes I learned from it. Or I’d just tune you out, to be honest. But then you started to get a little more personal? And then you gave me those _clothes_ , and I -” Martin stops, thinking, and Peter gives him a questioning glance.

“ _Did you know?_ ”

“Know what?”

“Oh my God, you had to have known!”

And now Peter looks away and Martin can glimpse a hint of sheepishness there, a coy lilt to his mouth and narrowed eyes.

“Oh, you _bastard_!”

Peter laughs again, more fully this time, and to Martin’s utter shock he brings up his own hand to hold Martin’s, intertwining their fingers as he speaks.

“I... may have guessed something was going on. Just a little. Suppose I just wanted to see what would happen, if anything.”

“Horrible!”

“Incorrigible, even.” And Martin can feels Peter’s breath ghosting over his knuckles as, gently, gently, he presses his lips down to them.

Martin thinks he is going to _die_.

“You’re very red, you know.”

“I did – I did _not_ expect that.” Peter puts his hand down, and looks contemplative.

“People have said I can be, hm, predictable? It’s good to branch out.”

“It’s _very_ good.” Martin wonders if he looks as every bit of a puddle as he feels as he lays his head back on Peter’s shoulder, melting into him and sighing. Peter’s eyes are closed, he can see, and by their feet there are a few burgeoning clouds of fog, cooling his legs. It’s a good enough excuse to press further into Peter.

Time passes – Martin’s eyes are closed by now, and he’s tired, the night full of highs that have exhausted him; by the time his head has lolled forward twice Peter has shifted, stretching slightly.

“Think it’s time for me to go.”

“Yeah... yeah, okay,” Martin yawns. Beside him Peter stands, careful not to jostle Martin too much, reaching out to steady him when he lilts to the side, and the sheer thrill of Peter – _Peter_! \- reaching out to touch him shakes his mind awake (at least for the next five minutes. Then, he thinks, he’s going to pass out in bed and have some hopefully _very_ nice dreams). He follows after him, Peter’s long legs making quick work and he’s at the door already, patting his pockets presumably to not forget anything; Martin waits, leans against the door frame.

“Well! This has been,” Peter’s face shifts from his usual genial smile to a quick glance to Martin, then away; in this light, now, Martin can see the dusting of red on his cheeks, blooming under cold skin. “Has been...”

“Productive?”

“Oh God, you sound like Elias. No.”

“Nice?” Martin teases.

“I feel like we keep saying that. Enlightening, perhaps.” He pauses, thinks. “Forgive me if I don’t quite know what happens next.”

“If you go disappear on your boat for the next month I’m deleting all the Excel files and won’t help you put them back. But _other than that_ ,” Martin laughs, sidles a little closer, feeling playful, coy, and he toys with Peter’s lapel. “Maybe a kiss goodnight?”

Peter’s fully red now and Martin hears the soft ‘oh’ being breathed out, and as cute as that is Martin thinks perhaps he’s being too forward, too soon. He relents, already pleased.

“Just on the cheek is fine, I - ” He’s cut off – Peter having apparently steadied himself and now his _mouth_ is on his and they’re _kissing_ , it’s an actual _kiss_ , and Martin’s brain has short-circuited into eternity but only for the briefest of moments, and he breathes in; Peter pulls away, but Martin follows, chases that feeling of the beard against his chin, lips against his and Peter’s hesitation that’s mostly shyness, not reluctance, of unknowing.

And Martin wants to _know_ . His palms flatten against Peter’s chest and he presses in further. It’s almost chaste, their kiss, and Martin focuses on simply feeling, the quickening of Peter’s breath, and his; the absolute gentleness of Peter’s fingers trailing his upper arm, barely there but it’s enough, it’s everything.

He breaks it off first, leans back and collects his own space, allows Peter his; now apart even in the low lighting Peter manages to look practically debauched, hair a little wild, mouth and cheeks red.

Martin rocks back on his heels, puffing up his cheeks.

“ _Wow_.”

“I think I agree, I – oh, hello,” Peter grabs at his shoulder as Martin rocks back a little too far, feels the delayed jump in his stomach by the time Peter’s pulled him in. “Careful now.”

He leans against the door frame for support and puts his hands in his pockets before he can be tempted to touch Peter anymore. They’re silent, now, though while Peter has gone quiet the rush of it all, and his heartbeat still racing, surrounds Martin, drowns him in it, and he almost misses the imperceptible movement of Peter taking his leave.

“I’ll see you later,” he says as he slips behind the door. He blends in with the muted tones of the hallway and the barely-there lighting seems to pass right over him. Martin reaches out, places his hand on a stuccoed wall, and calls out, breathless.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Peter promises, and in a blink he’s gone.

The remnants of fog remain, and they stay with Martin, curling over his legs and stomach and shoulders as he nestles down for the evening, tea in hand; warmth spreads throughout and the easy chill of the gray spreads over his home like a welcome breeze. He rests easy now, unencumbered by one less thing in his strange life, and goes to sleep with the murmur of the city and the hush of the wind.


End file.
